Page:Poems (Clement C. Moore).djvu/234

214 Life's pleasures shall not wither at a blow, But quiet pass, with mild decay and slow. The buoyant joys of youth, so bright and fair, Like rainbow tints, shall mellow into air. But sad reality has prov'd how vain This faithless prospect of a dreaming brain. Death's icy hand, within three fleeting years, Has chang'd this scene of bliss to sighs and tears. One lovely innocent was snatch'd away— A rose-bud, not half-open'd to the day— I saw my wife, then, to the grave descend, Beloved of my heart, my bosom friend. So interwoven were our joys, our pains, That, as I weeping follow'd her remains, I thought to tell her of the mournful scene— I could not realize the gulph between. This was not all; there was another blov Reserv'd to put the finish to my woe. A sweet endearing creature perish'd last, In youth's first spring, all childhood's dangers past— Oh! awful trial of religion's power, To see a suffering innocent's last hour!