How quick the change from joy to woe,
How chequer’d is our lot below!
Seldom we view the prospect fair;
Dark clouds of sorrow, pain, and care
(Some pleasing intervals between),
Scowl over more than half the scene.
Last week with Delia, gentle maid!
Far hence in happier fields I stray’d.
Five suns successive rose and set,
And saw no monarch in his state,
Wrapt in the blaze of majesty,
So free from every care as I.
Next day the scene was overcast—
Such day till then I never pass’d,—
For on that day, relentless fate!
Delia and I must separate.
Yet ere we look’d our last farewell,
From her dear lips this comfort fell,—
“Fear not that time, where’er we rove,
Or absence, shall abate my love.”