Chapter XVIII

How happy! but they all must know
The poignant sting of human woe.
Short is the morning of delight,
And all its tints are sweetly bright;
No cloud tempestuous mars its peace,
Till sad conviction bids it cease,
And reason’s voice, in thund’ring sound,
Bids view each real object round;
The sorrows all are doom’d to brave--
Save those, who, where the cypress wave,
Have hap’ly found an early grave;
Oh, they in sweet unconsciousness,
Nought know of sorrow, woe, or care!
The sod, in infant thoughtlessness,
Cradles their forms in silence there;
And, in the fitful gusts of air,
The drooping willow,
Their turf with bending foilage sweeps;
Each branch, in dewy fragrance, weeps
O’er the cold grave, where childhood sleeps
On balmy pillow.
Blest lot, to reach the happy goal
When unpolluted was the soul;
Ere vice had dim’d the heavenly ray,
Or mix’d that spark with baser clay:
The goal of our short human course
No skill can pass; no giant force
Can change its being or its date;
All tread the downward path of fate!
O who would o’er their cold graves sigh!
Or shed one parting tear of sorrow,
They died in happy infancy,
They live in day that knows no morrow.