RETROSPECTION.

I turn these leaves with thronging thoughts, and say,

Alas! how many friends of youth are dead;

How many visions of fair hope have fled,

Since first, my Muse, we met.— So speeds away

Life, and its shadows; yet we sit and sing,

Stretched in the noontide bower, as if the day

Declined not, and we yet might trill our lay

Beneath the pleasant morning's purple wing

That fans us; while aloft the gay clouds shine!

Oh, ere the coming of the long cold night,

Religion, may we bless thy purer light,

That still shall warm us, when the tints decline

O'er earth's dim hemisphere; and sad we gaze

On the vain visions of our passing days!