Where, inmate of our spirit! wast thou born?
Thou that in life's early morn
Treasurest the shapes of things
Hued by our imaginings,
From thee mirrored; that dost give
Pictured forms that in us live,
Then when fancy's tints are shed,
And youth's glorious visions fled,
Was thy sacred office given
To record our hurried days,
Through life's crowded pathways driven?
The brief rapture, and the tear,
Spring of life and autumn sere;
Passions evil, mixed, and good,
We gave way to, or withstood,
Waxing feebler as decays
Our earthly cell, where yet the rays
Of thy lamp linger till they wave
Like gleams expiring o'er a living grave.