Classic Poem

How gaily is at first begun
Our Life's uncertain race!
Whilst yet that sprightly morning sun,
With which we just set out to run,
Enlightens all the place.

How soft the first ideas prove,
Which wander through our minds!
How full the joys, how free the love,
Which does that early season move,
As flow'rs the western winds!

Our sighs are then but vernal air,
But April-drops our tears,
Which swiftly passing, all grows fair,
Whilst beauty compensates our care,
And youth each vapour clears.

But oh! too soon, alas, we climb,
Scarce feeling we ascend,
The gently rising hill of Time,
From whence with grief we see that prime,
And all its sweetness end.

The die now cast, our station known,
Fond expectation past;
The thorns, which former days had sown,
To crops of late repentance grown,
Thro' which we toil at last.

Whilst ev'ry care's a driving harm,
That helps to bear us down;
Which faded smiles no more can charm,
But ev'ry tear's a winter storm,
And ev'ry look's a frown.

Till with succeeding ills opprest,
For joys we hop'd to find;
By age too, rumpl'd and undrest,
We, gladly sinking down to rest,
Leave following crowds behind.