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238 At length, worn down with toil and cold,
 * The Wanderer sunk upon the heath;

And ere the shepherd loosed his fold,
 * His weary eyes were closed in death.

The last, the dreaded pang is o’er, And low he lies, to rise no more!

Such is Life’s journey—’tis a scene
 * Where joy and grief alternate reign;

Where mixed emotions intervene,
 * Of hope and fear, of bliss and pain;

Where sunbeams dart, and tempests rage, In every season, every age.

As through this wilderness we roam,
 * Fond Hope may wear her sweetest smile,

And tell of happier days to come,
 * The wearied bosom to beguile;

But vanished is her soothing power, In disappointment’s languid hour.

Then happiest he whose hopes sublime
 * Are centred in the joys of heaven;

Calmly adown the stream of time
 * His peaceful bark shall then be driven.

Firm as the adamantine rock, His heart shall brave “Misfortune’s rudest shock.” 1804.