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Before the throng shall leave their beds,
Their various labours to pursue;
Before the smoke, aspiring spreads
Its curling volumes light and blue.
The flowers that in their sweetness rose,
The mountain's bosom to adorn,
Now hide their meek and drooping brows,
Before the stern and wintry morn.
The plants that once with joy elate,
Now shrink before the wintry gloom,
Remind my spirit of the state,
To which must haste our youthful bloom.
But when these charms, so bright and frail,
Shall shrink, and wither, and decay,
Say, is there nought to countervail
The good that time shall take away?
There is a joy that lights the eye,
When beauty, youth, and strength are past,
When all our earthly pleasures fly,
Like leaves before the wintry blast.
There is a joy that checks the throng
Of chilling cares, and sorrow's shock,
That strikes its anchor, deep and strong,
In Heaven's imperishable rock.
