THE LAZY mist hangs from the brow of the hill,
Concealing the course of the dark-winding rill;
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear!
As Autumn to Winter resigns the pale year.
The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown,
And all the gay foppery of summer is flown:
Apart let me wander, apart let me muse,
How quick Time is flying, how keen Fate pursues!
How long I have livdbut how much livd in vain,
How little of lifes scanty span may remain,
What aspects old Time in his progress has worn,
What ties cruel Fate, in my bosom has torn.
How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gaind!
And downward, how weakend, how darkend, how paind!
Life is not worth having with all it can give
For something beyond it poor man sure must live.
