Maiden, have not the joys of earth
Prov'd fleeting, and of little worth?
And when the summer sun rode high,
Have clouds ne'er flitted o'er the sky?
Has Hope ne'er sprung beside thy way,
And blossom'd only to decay?
Has Friendship never chang'd her tone,
And 'woke a sigh for pleasures gone?
Has Love ne'er shed his fitful gleam
Across thy path--then hid his beam?
Hast thou ne'er felt the solemn truth--
That palsied age must steal o'er youth;
And that the auburn tresses gay
Must soon be chang'd for mournful gray?
Has sickness never pal'd the rose,
That on the cheek of beauty glows,
And ghastly death, with funeral gloom,
Oft call'd the lovely to the tomb?
Ah, maiden, yes, that tell-tale sigh,
The downcast glances of thine eye,
Say that thy heart is but the tomb
Of hopes that wither'd in their bloom;--
Say that, where all things else decay,
Thy fragile form must pass away.
Then why so fondly cling to earth,
Whose joys are of so little worth?
But rather raise your thoughts on high,
Where Hope's fair promises ne'er die,
Where ghastly death holds no domain,
But endless youth and beauty reign.