So soft Time's plumage in life's budding spring,
We rarely note the flutter of his wing.
The untutored heart, from pain and sadness free,
Beats high with hope and joy and ecstasy;
And the fond bosoms of confiding youth
Believe their fairy world a world of truth.
The thorn is young upon the rose's stem;
They heed it not, it has no wound for them.
While yet the heart is new to misery,
There is a gloss on everything we see;
There is a freshness, which returns no more
When fades the morn of life that soon is o'er;
A warmth of feeling, ardency of joy,
Delight almost exempt from an alloy,
A zest for pleasure, fearlessness of pain,
That we are destined ne'er to know again.
And what succeeds this era joyous, bright?
Is it a cloudless eve or starless night?
To those who're busied in life's brilliant dawn
With gathering flowers that bloom when spring is gone,
And, ere their morning sun begins to wane,
Add many a link to fond affection's chain,
To Heaven's supreme behest have meekly bowed—
'Twill prove indeed an eve without a cloud.
What though the brilliancy and sheen of day
With youthful hours have faded all away;
What though the fresh and roseate bloom of spring
A fragrance in our path no more shall fling;
Yet there's a foretaste pure of joys divine,
A quiet, holy calm in life's decline,
A moonlight of the soul in mercy given
To light the pilgrim to the gates of Heaven.