Ill-Fated hour! oft as thy annual reign
Leads on th'autumnal tide, my pinion'd joys
Fade with the glories of the fading year;
“Remembrance‘ wakes with all her busy train,”
And bids affection heave the heart-drawn sigh
O'er the cold tomb, rich with the spoils of death,
And wet with many a tributary tear!
Eight times has each successive season sway'd
The fruitful sceptre of our milder clime
Since My Loved died! but why, ah! why
Should melancholy cloud my early years?
Religion spurns earth's visionary scene,
Philosophy revolts at misery's chain:
Just Heaven recall'd it's own, the pilgrim call'd
From human woes, from sorrow's rankling worm;
Shall frailty then prevail?
Oh! be it mine
To curb the sigh which bursts o'er Heaven's decree;
To tread the path of rectitude — that when
Life's dying ray shall glimmer in the frame,
That latest breath I may in peace resign,
“Firm in the faith of seeing thee and God.”