Go little page, thy destined course pursue,
Collect memorials of the just and true,
And beg of every friend so near
Some token of remembrance dear.
When years elapse,
It may, perhaps,
Delight us to review these scraps,
And live again ‘mid scenes so gay,
That time’s rough hand has swept away;
For when the eye, bedimmed with age,
Those pleasant hours
That once were ours
Shall come again, like autumn flowers,
To bloom and smile upon us here
When all things else seem sad and dread;
‘Till tune our hearts and make them sing,
And turn our autumn into spring!