Whate'er thou art, how sad thy fate;
  With wasted strength the goal to spy,
Cling feebly to the flapping sail,
  And at a stranger's feet to die.

For thee the widowed mate shall gaze
  From leafy chamber curtained fair;
And, wailing lays at evening's close,
  Lament thy loss in deep despair.

Even thus, o er life s unresting tide,
  Chilled by the billow's beating spray,
Some adventitious prize to gain,
  Ambition's votaries urge their way;

Some eyrie on the Alpine cliff,
  Some proud Mont-Blanc they fain would climb,
Snatch wreaths of laurel steeped in gore,
  Or win from Fame a strain sublime;

They lose of home the heartfelt joys,
  The charm of seasons as they roll,
And stake, amid their blinding course,
  The priceless birthright of the soul:

Years fleet, and still they struggle on,
  Their dim eye rolls with fading fire,
Perchance the long-sought treasure grasp,
  Taste the brief victory, and expire.