Life has its sunshine! but the ray
Which dashes on its stormy wave,
Is but the beacon of decay,
A meteor glimmering o'er the grave;
And though its dawning hour is bright
With fancy's gayest coloring,
Yet o'er this cloud-encumbered night,
Dark ruin flaps her raven wing.
Life hath its flowers—and what are they?
The buds of early love and truth
Which spring and wither in a day—
The gems of warm, confiding youth;
Alas! those buds decay and die,
Ere ripened and matured in bloom;
E'en in an hour behold them lie
Upon the still and lonely tomb.
Life has its pang of deepest thrill,
Thy sting, relentless memory!
Which wakes not, pierces not, until
The hour of joy hath ceased to be;
Then, when the heart is in its pall,
And cold afflictions gather o'er,
Thy mournful anthem doth recall
Bliss which hath died to bloom no more.
Life hath its blessing! but the storm
Sweeps like the desert wind in wrath,
To sear and blight the loveliest form
Which sports on earth's deceitful path.
Oh! soon the sad heart-broken wail,
So changed from youth's delightful tone,
Floats mournfully upon the gale
Where all is desolate and lone.
Life hath its hope—a matin dream,
A cankered flower, a setting sun,
Which casts a transitory gleam
Upon the evening's clouds of dun.
Pass up an hour, that dream hath fled,
The flowers on earth forsaken lie;
The sun hath set, whose lustre shed
A light upon the shaded sky.—Sel.