ON MEETING SOME FRIENDS OF YOUTH AT CHELTENHAM,

Here the companions of our careless prime, Whom fortune's various ways have severed long, Since that fair dawn when Hope her vernal song Sang blithe, with features marked by stealing time At these restoring springs are met again! We, young adventurers on life's opening road, Set out together; to their last abode Some have sunk silent, some a while remain, Some are dispersed; of many, growing old In life's obscurer bourne, no tale is told. Here, ere the shades of the long night descend, And all our wanderings in oblivion end, The parted meet once more, and pensive trace (Marked by that hand unseen, whose iron pen Writes "mortal change" upon the fronts of men) The creeping furrows in each other's face. Where shall we meet again? Reflection sighs; Where? In the dust! Time rushing on replies: Then hail the hope that lights the pilgrim's way, Where there is neither change, nor darkness, nor decay!