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And, fair one, when the hues that paint
The youthful cheek, grow dim and faint,
And when the voice of softest tone,
Must falter in its final moan,
And nought remain of life or grace,
But what the eye in tears must trace,
The pious soul from error freed,
The thought that wak'd the virtuous deed,
Shall rise above the closing tomb,
Shall bloom where blight can never come.
VAIN PURSUITS.
Some rejoice in pleasure's beam,
Some in fortune's glittering stream,
Some in beauty, some in pride,
Some in honour's treacherous tide;
While with giddy haste they pass,
Like the insect o'er the grass.
