IN careless childhood's sunny hours,
When all we love, is nigh,
No thorn, amid life's opening flowers,
No cloud, in all its sky;
We fear no ill, nor dream of care,
But deem, each following day,
Shall light us, on, to fairer scenes,
And beam, with brighter ray.
And childhood's vernal season past;
And shunned youth's thousand snares,
When manhood's autumn comes at last,
With sorrows, fears, and cares,
Still, autumn-like, its skies are bright,
And still, the world seems young,
And still, we love its mellow light,
Its bowers, with fruitage hung.
But autumn's golden skies must fade,
And autumn's fruits decay,
And soon, 'mid snows and storms, must come
Old age's wintry day.
A wintry day at best, as short,
As gloomy, and as cold,
Till the worn body yields at last,
And life lets go its hold.
And when its earthly hold is gone,
The world's brief fashion past,
Are there no hopes, that shall survive,
No pleasures, that shall last
Yes, Christian, it is thine to know,
Life's but a weary way,
A short, though painful, pilgrimage,
To realms of endless day;
Where Faith, her crown of life, shall wear,
And Hope, be lost in joy,
And meek-eyed love, be paid with bliss,
That time can ne'er destroy;
For thither, has the Lamb gone up,
Who suffered, and was slain,
That, risen with Him, His followers might
With Him, for ever, reign.