When smiling Hope, devoid of art,
Gilt childhood's early morn,
How little dreamed my simple heart
That ever it should mourn !
Friend of my careless, happy youth,
Low bending o'er thy urn,
My heart was then first taught this truth,
It was but formed to mourn.
The flowery bands Affection wove,
By cold Indifference torn,
Have since oft bade my bosom prove,
How keenly it can mourn.

Hope blooms to die, and friends depart,
Ah! never to return;
Then cease to beat, fond foolish heart,
And thou shalt cease to mourn.