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Literary Gazette, 7th June, 1834, Page 401
And yet it was a happy hour,
The one when it was dying;
In sooth it was a favoured flower,
Though bloom and breath were flying.
'Twas pleasant so to fade away,
With fond eyes on it gazing,
And wishing that it still could stay,
With words of tender praising.
It died as I could wish to die,
Untouched by coming sorrow;
No drooping head—no languid eye—
Such as would come to-morrow.
Youth has its own appointed hours;
But ere we tell their number,
Are they not like the withered flowers
Which some dark grave encumber?
When hope—the lark which only sings
Its music to the morning—
Lends the young step its buoyant wings,
Life's duller path-way scorning.
