Come melancholy Moralizer—come!

  Gather with me the dark and wintry wreath;

      With me engarland now

      The SEPULCHRE OF TIME!

  Come Moralizer to the funeral song!

  I pour the dirge of the Departed Days,

      For well the funeral song

      Befits this solemn hour.

  But hark! even now the merry bells ring round

  With clamorous joy to welcome in this day,

      This consecrated day,

      To Mirth and Indolence.

  Mortal! whilst Fortune with benignant hand

  Fills to the brim thy cup of happiness,

      Whilst her unclouded sun

      Illumes thy summer day,

  Canst thou rejoice—rejoice that Time flies fast?

  That Night shall shadow soon thy summer sun?

      That swift the stream of Years

      Rolls to Eternity?

  If thou hast wealth to gratify each wish,

  If Power be thine, remember what thou art—

      Remember thou art Man,

      And Death thine heritage!

  Hast thou known Love? does Beauty's better sun

  Cheer thy fond heart with no capricious smile,

      Her eye all eloquence,

      Her voice all harmony?

  Oh state of happiness! hark how the gale

  Moans deep and hollow o'er the leafless grove!

      Winter is dark and cold—

      Where now the charms of Spring?

  Sayst thou that Fancy paints the future scene

  In hues too sombrous? that the dark-stol'd Maid

      With stern and frowning front

      Appals the shuddering soul?

  And would'st thou bid me court her faery form

  When, as she sports her in some happier mood,

      Her many-colour'd robes

      Dance varying to the Sun?

  Ah vainly does the Pilgrim, whose long road

  Leads o'er the barren mountain's storm-vext height,

      With anxious gaze survey

      The fruitful far-off vale.

  Oh there are those who love the pensive song

  To whom all sounds of Mirth are dissonant!

      There are who at this hour

      Will love to contemplate!

  For hopeless Sorrow hails the lapse of Time,

  Rejoicing when the fading orb of day

      Is sunk again in night,

      That one day more is gone.

  And he who bears Affliction's heavy load

  With patient piety, well pleas'd he knows

      The World a pilgrimage,

      The Grave the inn of rest.