THE PILGRIM OF THE WORLD.
“Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher; all is vanity.”—
Solomon.
The world's weary pathway—I've wandered it through,
Some bright-glancing meteor ever in view;
And fair forms of fancy were beck'ning me on,
But ere I could grasp them the charmers were gone;
And small seems the worth of the joys I've possessed,
Now life's journey is o'er and the Pilgrim must rest.
Men's histories scanned—on the first and last page,
The yearnings of youth, and the anguish of age
Alike are impressed—and what boots it between,
Perchance, in thy record, a triumph has been?
As vain were the efforts that joy to retain,
As imprison the sunbeam or fetter the main.
Beauty and Love—O, their emblems are flowers,
Their date of existence is numbered by hours;
And Friendship's warm smile with the swallow is flown,
And Fame with the popular breathing is gone,
And Gold in the grasping is dimmed by thy cares,
'T was hope lent it lustre—that hope is thine heir's.
Thus fair as the syren, but false as her song,
The world's painted shadows that lure us along;
Like the mist on the mountain, the foam on the deep,
Or the voices of friends that we greet in our sleep,
Are the pleasures of earth—and I mourn that to heaven
I gave not the heart which to folly was given.
