O could our art, or our desire,
Make mortal man immortal here,
And kindle an eternal fire
From life's vain sparks of hope and fear;
How soon the restless soul would tire,
And envy death its sepulchre!
No! life is long enough for all
That's worth a care, that's worth a thought;
Soon pleasure's best attractions pall-
Soon weariness its work hath wrought;
The ripened fruits unheeded fall,
And time's delusions leave us nought.
And then 'twere very sweet indeed
To seek a grave-for who could bear
To feel his heart's core bleed, and bleed
Unstaunched by hope-uncured by care-
And find no resting-place in need,
To shield him from his own despair?