Enveloped in the starless night,
Which destiny hath overspread;
Enrolled upon that trackless flight,
Where the dark wing of time had sped.

Oh! thus hath life its eventide
Of sorrow, loneliness and grief,
And thus divested of its pride,

It withers like the yellow leaf.
Oh! such is life's autumnal bower,

When plundered of its summer's bloom ; And such is life's autumnal hour,

Which heralds man unto the tomb!

THE END.

BROOKMAN AND CO., PRINTERS, MITCHELL STREET, GLASGOW