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Life's earliest sweets are wasted,
And time impatient flies;
The flowers of youth are blasted,
Their lingering beauty dies.
Yet my bosom owns a pleasure,
That no icy breath can chill;--
'Tis thy friendship, dearest treasure,
For my hopes are with thee still.

Though mine eye, by sorrow shaded,
Drops the solitary tear,
O'er remember'd joys, now faded,
To young love and rapture dear.
E'en the retrospective feeling,
Leaves a momentary thrill;
All the wounds of sorrow healing,
For my hopes are with thee still.

Though I've bid adieu to pleasure,
With her giddy, fleeting train;
And her song of joyous measure,
I may never raise again.
Yet the chilling gloom of sadness,
Waving o'er me, brooding ill,
Emits one ray of gladness,