There comes a time, a dreary time,
To him whose heart hath flown
O'er all the fields of youth's sweet prime,
And made each flow its own.
‘ Tis when his soul must first renounce
Those dreams so bright, so fond;
Oh! then's the time to die at once.
For life has naught beyond.
When sets the sun on Afric's shore,
That instant all is night;
And so should life at once be o'er.
When Love withdraws his light;—
Nor, like our northern day, gleam on
Thro’ twilight's dim delay,
The cold remains of lustre gone,
Of fire long past away.