I saw a stream whose waves were bright

With morning's dazzling sheen;

But gathering clouds, ere fall of night,

Had darken’d o’er the scene:—

“How like that tide,”

My Spirit sighed,

“This life to me hath been.”

The clouds dispers’d:— the glorious West

Was bright with closing day;

And on the river's peaceful breast

Shone forth the sunset ray:—

My Spirit caught

The soothing thought—

Thus life might pass away.

I saw a tree:— with ripening fruit

And shady foliage crown’d;

But ah! an axe was at its root,

And fell’d it to the ground:—

Well might that tree

Recal to me

The doom my hopes had found.

The fire consum’d it:— but I saw

Its smoke ascend on high!

A shadowy type, beheld with awe,

Of that which cannot die,

But, from the grave

Shall rise to crave

A home above the sky.