Our youth was happy: why repine
That, like the Year’s, Life’s days decline?
‘Tis well to mingle with the mould
When we ourselves alike are cold,
And when the only tears we shed
Are of the dying on the dead.
Our youth was happy: why repine
That, like the Year’s, Life’s days decline?
‘Tis well to mingle with the mould
When we ourselves alike are cold,
And when the only tears we shed
Are of the dying on the dead.