How brief our earthly span! Youth, Manhood, Age— We creep—we walk—we totter off life’s stage, A thin, weak voice—a fuller, stronger tone, A peevish, child-like cry, and then a groan! How quick yon star shoots down the illumined sky— ’Tis gone! And yet we see not where on high, Its bright lamp shone! ’Tis thus with feeble man— He twinkles here a moment, and, is gone! On rolls the world! Each evanescent year Bears on its current to some distant sphere, Myriads of mortal forms—vain things of time, Youth in its hour of hope—and Manhood’s prime— Beauty, and all its fading hues of clay, The tints that _are_ not, but were yesterday! The eyes whose light enkindled many a flame— The lips that breathed in love some cherished name— The fair slight hand—the cheek so like the rose, The form where Grace herself had sought repose— The music voice—the shadowy locks and all That touched the heart—or glittered in the ball; These all have been—but Death has claimed them now— The look of scorn—the proud and lofty brow— Vice, with its heartless sneer, and Wealth and Pride, Lifeless and still, now slumber side by side! And is there then no grace to mortals given,— No hope to brighten here and lead to Heaven? No faith to lift the soul from worldly ties, And point the way to Joy and Paradise! Look to thy heart, vain mortal, question there, Of life and death—of glory and despair— Ask, if within a spirit may not dwell— A viewless tenant of thy bosom’s cell— Whose thin small voice, in accents soft and sweet, May oft be heard to warn thy erring feet— “Beware—avoid—beyond is Heaven’s high road, Where knees are bent, and souls commune with God— There, where the meek of heart, the pure and mild, Walk hand in hand with Virtue’s dove-eyed child— There, where the widow gives her liberal mite, And points the orphan in the way aright— There, where soft Feeling sheds the heart-wrung tear, And bends in sorrow o’er the sinner’s bier— Where patient Grief leans on her thin white hand, And smiling, dreams of the unshadowed land— Look—mortal look—the pathway is not bright— But mark, it closes in a world of light— The clouds that hang above its troubled way, Melt in the distance into perfect day!