AN hath a weary pilgrimage,

As through the world he wends;

On every stage from youth to age
Still discontent attends.

With heaviness he casts his eye
Upon the road before,

And still remembers with a sigh
The days that are no more.

To school the little exile goes,
Torn from his mother arms,-
What then shall soothe his earliest woes,
When novelty hath lost its charms?
Condemned to suffer through the day
Restraints which no rewards repay,

And cares where love has no concern, Hope lengthens as she counts the hours Before his wished return.

From hard control and tyrant rules,
The unfeeling discipline of schools,
In thought he loves to roam,
And tears will struggle in his eye
While he remembers with a sigh
The comforts of his home.

Youth comes; the toils and cares of life Torment the restless mind;

Where shall the tired and harassed heart

Its consolation find?

Then is not Youth, as Fancy tells,
Life's summer prime of joy?
Ah, no! for hopes too long delayed,
And feelings blasted or betrayed,
Its fabled bliss destroy;

And Youth remembers with a sigh
The careless days of Infancy.

Maturer Manhood now arrives,

And other thoughts come on,
But with the baseless hopes of Youth
Its generous warmth is gone;
Cold, calculating cares succeed,
The timid thought, the wary deed,
The dull realities of truth;
Back on the past he turns his eye,
Remembering with an envious sigh
The happy dreams of Youth.

So reaches he the latter stage
Of this our mortal pilgrimage,
With feeble step and slow;
New ills that latter stage await,
And old Experience learns too late

That all is vanity below.
Life's vain delusions are gone by;

Its idle hopes are o'er;

Yet Age remembers with a sigh

The days that are no more.

Fare Thee Well.

ARE thee well! and if forever,

Still for ever, fare thee well;

Even though unforgiving, never

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Would that breast were bared before thee,
Where thy head so oft hath lain,

While that placid sleep came o'er thee,
Which thou ne'er canst know again:

Would that breast, by thee glanced over, Every inmost thought could show!

Then thou wouldst at last discover

'Twas not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee
Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe:

Although my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found

Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?

Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not:
Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away;

Still thine own its life retaineth—

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth Is that we no more may meet.

These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead;
Both shall live, but every morrow
Wake us from a widowed bed.

And when thou wouldst solace gather,
When our child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!"
Though his care she must forego?

When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is pressed,

Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee-
Think of him thy love had blessed!

Should her lineaments resemble

Those thou never more mayst see, Then thy heart will softly tremble

With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults, perchance, thou knowest,
All my madness none can know;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,
Whither, yet with thee they go!

Every feeling hath been shaken,

Pride, which not a world could bow, Bow to thee-by thee forsaken,

Even my soul forsakes me now:

But 'tis done-all words are idle-
Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle,
Force their way without the will.

Fare thee well!-thus disunited,

Torn from every nearer tie;

Seared in heart, and lone and blighted More than this I scarce can die!

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