Time was, when shadowy eve 
Was dearer to my heart than smiling morn, 
And than the lovely garlands Spring doth weave, 
The faded hues by pensive Autumn worn. 
’T was in my youthful prime, 
When life itself put on the look of Spring ; 
Ere Care, that ever tracks the steps of Time, 
Seem’d other than a visionary thing. 
Untouch’d by real grief, 
E’en from its own excess of joy, my heart 
In fancied ills would ofttimes seek relief, 
And sport with Sorrow’s yet unvenom’d dart: 
But now, when every sigh 
Is fraught, alas ! with meaning full and deep ; 
When Hope resigns her seat to Memory, 
And leaves me o’er her vanish’d dreams to weep ; 
Oh ! now I turn away 
From Autumn’s sered wreaths to Spring’s gay bloom; 
Those all too sadly mind me of decay, 
These bid sweet Hope once more her sway resume. 
