| |
| HOW gaily is at first begun | |
| Our Life’s uncertain race: | |
| Whilst yet that sprightly morning sun, | |
| With which we just set out to run | |
| Enlightens all the place. | 5 |
| |
| How smiling the world’s prospect lies | |
| How tempting to go through; | |
| Not Canaan to the prophet’s eyes, | |
| From Pisgah with a sweet surprise, | |
| Did more inviting shew. | 10 |
| |
| How promising’s the Book of Fate, | |
| Till thoroughly understood; | |
| Whilst partial hopes such lots create, | |
| As may the youthful fancy treat | |
| With all that’s great and good. | 15 |
| |
| How soft the first Ideas prove, | |
| Which wander through our minds; | |
| How full the joys, how free the love, | |
| Which does that early season move; | |
| As flowers the western winds. | 20 |
| |
| Our sighs are then but vernal air; | |
| But April-drops our tears, | |
| Which swiftly passing, all grows fair, | |
| Whilst Beauty compensates our care, | |
| And youth each vapour clears. | 25 |
| |
| But oh! too soon, alas, we climb; | |
| Scarce feeling we ascend | |
| The gently rising Hill of Time, | |
| From whence with grief we see that prime, | |
| And all its sweetness end. | 30 |
| |
| The die now cast, our station known, | |
| Fond expectation past; | |
| The thorns, which former days had sown, | |
| To crops of late repentance grown, | |
| Thro’ which we toil at last. | 35 |
| |
| Whilst every care’s a driving harm, | |
| That helps to bear us down; | |
| Which faded smiles no more can charm, | |
| But every tear’s a winter storm, | |
| And every look’s a frown. | 40 |
| |
| Till with succeeding ills opprest, | |
| For joys we hoped to find; | |
| By age too, rumpled and undrest, | |
| We gladly sinking down to rest, | |
| Leave following crowds behind. | 45 |
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