In musing mood, to care a prey,
Youth's airy visions lost in gloom,
I shuddering mark the dreary way,
Hope beckoning smiles beyond the tomb.
Then why, my heart, that wishful sigh?
Why round some well loved form entwine?
There, only there, each woe will fly;
There, only there, can bliss be thine.
To part, what, trembler, dost thou fear?
Say, art thou still delusion's slave?
Shall lingering love not drop one tear,
What time thy form shall press its grave?