VIII.

I traverse oft in thought the battle-plain Of my past life, 'mid many a shatter'd dream Of pleasure, and of hope, which youth in vain Based on the shifting sands of Time's swift stream, Fond bulwarks 'gainst the strong assaults of pain; And 'mid their ruins, like an exiled man Gazing on scenes where he can dwell no more, I stand and mourn their sweet enchantment o'er, Where both life's pleasures and its cares began. Earth crumbles 'neath our feet as we walk on, And leaves a gulf behind none can retrace; Its pleasures flash a moment and are gone; But if we treasure in our soul love's grace, That will refresh and gladden all our race.