I sing of Death; yet soon, perchance may be
A dweller in the tomb. But twenty years
Have wither’d, since my pilgrimage began,
And I look back upon my boyish days
With mournful joy; as musing wand’rers do,
With eye reverted, from some lofty hill,
Upon the bright and peaceful vale below.�
Oh! let me live, until the fires that feed
My soul, have work’d themselves away, and then,
Eternal Spirit, take me to Thy home!
For when a child, I shaped inspiring dreams,
And nourish’d aspirations that awoke
Beautiful feelings flowing from the face
Of Nature; from a child, I learn’d to reap
A harvest of sweet thoughts for future years.

~Robert Montgomery