Behold yon truant schoolboy, cap in hand,
Bound o'er the gilded mead with frantic whoop,
And to each butterfly give ready chase;
Till one more gaudy than the flutt'ring rest
Starts up before his gaze. Then darts he forth
To clutch the prize, which ever and anon
Lingers on shiny flow'r till nearly caught,
Then flickers off with tantalizing flirt.
The youth with hopeful heart keeps up the chase,
And so intent upon the game, that he
Sees not the yawning slough beneath his feet,
Until he finds himself o'er head and ears
In dreary plight. And so it is through life:
From youth to age man dreams of happiness:
Grasps every gilded bubble that upsoars,
Fondly believing each to be the prize
His fancy pictured. Still the wished-for joy
Is far beyond his reach as e'er it was;
Yet, buoyed with hope, he sees, or thinks he sees,
The coming future bearing in its arms
The smiling Beauty that he pants to grasp.
With palpitating heart and trembling hand
He reaches forth to pluck the prize—when lo!
The treach'rous earth expanding at his feet,
He finds in place of happiness—a grave.