My Friend, our few remaining years
Are hasting to an end,
They glide away, and lines are here
That time will never mend;
Thy blameless life avails thee not,—
Alas, my dear old Friend!
From mother Earth's green orchard trees
The fairest fruit is blown,
The lad was gay who slumbers near,
The lass he loved is gone;
Death lifts the burthen from the poor,
And will not spare the throne.
And vainly are we fenced about
From peril, day and night,
The awful rapids must be shot,
Our shallop is but slight;
So pray, when parting, we descry
A cheering beacon-light.
O pleasant Earth! This happy home!
The darling at my knee!
My own dear wife! Thyself, old Friend!
And must it come to me
That any face shall fill my place
Unknown to them and thee?