I stand upon the wave that marks the round

Of Life’s dark-heaving and revolving years;

Still sweeping onward from Youth’s sunny ground,

Still changed and chequered with my joys and fears,

And colored from the past, where Thought careers,

Shadowing the ashes in pale Memory’s urn;

Where perished buds were laid, with frequent tears,

That on the cheek of Disappointment burn,

As blessed hours roll on, that never may return.

What have they seen, those changed and vanish’d years?

Uplifted, soaring thoughts, all quelled by fate;

Affection, mournful in its gushing tears;

And midst the crowd that at the funeral wait,

A widowed mother’s heart made desolate

O’er a war-honor’d Sire’s low place of rest;

These are the tales that Memory may relate:

They have a moral for the aspiring breast,

A lesson of Decay on earthliness impress’d.

Yet Hope still chaunts unto the listening ear

The witching music of her treacherous song;

Still paints the Future eloquent and clear,

And sees the tide of Life roll calm along,

Where glittering phantoms rise, a luring throng;

And voiceful Fame holds out the laurel bough:

Where rapturous applause is loud and long,

Frail guerdon for the heart!—which lights the brow

With the ephemeral smile of Mind’s triumphant glow.