 | The Battle of Largs |  |
68
A REVERIE.
Ah me! how brief is earthly bliss,
How close succeeding sorrows cling:
Joy flits away, when all would press—
The twinkle of a moment's wing.
How close succeeding sorrows cling:
Joy flits away, when all would press—
The twinkle of a moment's wing.
To sacred shrines as pilgrims haste,
With tales of grief, remorse, and care,
So, crowding to the human breast,
The hours distressful tidings bear.
With tales of grief, remorse, and care,
So, crowding to the human breast,
The hours distressful tidings bear.
The unfledg'd fluttering hopes of youth,
That idle Fancy fondly fed,
Scar'd by the steps of pensive Truth,
Have all on rapid pinions fled.
That idle Fancy fondly fed,
Scar'd by the steps of pensive Truth,
Have all on rapid pinions fled.
69
Where oft, with sprightly heart and eyes,
My guileless years were charm'd away,
Aghast I see, with sad surprise,
The babbling brood of strangers play.
My guileless years were charm'd away,
Aghast I see, with sad surprise,
The babbling brood of strangers play.
And round yon spire, whose hazy cone
The shadowy moonlight dimly shows,
Beneath the hallow'd mould'ring stone
My best and early friends repose.
The shadowy moonlight dimly shows,
Beneath the hallow'd mould'ring stone
My best and early friends repose.
Ah me! how brief is earthly bliss,
How close succeeding sorrows cling:
Joy flits away, while yet we press—
The twinkle of a moment's wing.
How close succeeding sorrows cling:
Joy flits away, while yet we press—
The twinkle of a moment's wing.
| The Battle of Largs | |