To live in cities--and to join
The loud and busy throng,
Who press with mad and giddy haste,
In pleasure's chase along;
To yield the soul to fashion's rules,
Ambition's varied strife;
Borne like a leaf upon the stream--
Oh! no--this is not life!
To pass the calm and pleasant hours,
By wild wood, hill, and grove,
And find a heaven in solitude,
With one we deeply love;
To know the wealth of happiness,
That each to each can give,
And feel no power can sever us--
Ah! this it is to live!
It is not death, when on the couch
Of sickness we are laid,
With all our spirit wasted,
And the bloom of youth decay'd;
To feel the shadow dim our eyes,
And pant for failing breath;
Then break at length life's feeble hain--
Oh, no! this is not death!
To part from one beneath whose smiles
We long were used to dwell,
To hear the lips we love pronounce
A passionate farewell;
To catch the last _too_ tender glance
Of an adoring eye,
And weep in solitude of heart--
Ah! this it is to die!