Yes, life is but a waste,

A cheerless pathway, where

No healthy fruit allures the taste,

No flowerets balm the air,

If Love, the wild rose, ne'er luxuriates there.

Mortal! that cull'st the flowers of life,

Think not to escape the thorn.

What heart has not false Hope misled?

The pageant of a former hour,

Is Beauty in the Grave.

And look upon the laughing earth,

Where spring in careless play

Puts forth its fairest blossoms, but

To deck them with decay.

On every blessing lent to man

Are traces of the Grave.