Pale pilgrim of the heavens, that late didst glide
With sunbeam staff the violet vales along,
Where fountains of fresh dew gushed up in song,
To bathe thy golden feet and then subside-
Last wave that sparkled on time's ebbing tide-
How are thy bright limbs laid amid the throng
Of vanished days, that drooped over earthly wrong,
Seeing how virtue is to vice allied,
And vanished blushingly.
Sad Yesterday!
Night's winding-sheet is round thee, and the eyes
That found a health or fever in thy ray
And thoughtfully perused on evening skies
Thine elegy, star-lettered-now away
Turn their brief thoughts of thee, and thus men moralize.