There comes a time, a dreary time,

  To him whose heart hath flown

O'er all the fields of youth's sweet prime,

  And made each flow its own.

'Tis when his soul must first renounce

  Those dreams so bright, so fond;

Oh! then's the time to die at once.

  For life has naught beyond.

When sets the sun on Afric's shore,

  That instant all is night;

And so should life at once be o'er.

  When Love withdraws his light;—

Nor, like our northern day, gleam on

  Thro' twilight's dim delay,

The cold remains of lustre gone,

  Of fire long past away.