“ 
320 SOUTHEY. 
Ah ! vainly docs the Pilgrim, whose long road 
Leads o’er a barren mountain’s storm-vexed height, 
With wistful eye behold 
Some quiet vale, far off 
And there are those who love the pensive song, 
To whom all sounds of mirth are dissonant 
Them in accordant mood 
This thoughtful strain will find. 
For hopeless Sorrow hails the lapse of Time, 
Rejoicing when the fading orb of day 
Is sunk again in night, 
That one more day is gone ! 
And he who bears Affliction’s heavy load 
With patient piety, well-pleased he knowti 
The World’s a pilgrimage, 
The Grave his inn of rest. 
i 
