And must I hence depart?
Without one flow'r of fame,
That spring from one loving heart,
Might sweetly wreathe my name?
And all those glowing dreams,
Within my soul enshrined,
Passing — like Summer's — fitful gleams,
'Neath Autumn's nipping wind.

Oh! am I called away,
Ere all my harp is strung?
With none to wake the magic lay,
That joy o'er me , hath flung
Softly its numbers flow,
Yet rich, and full, and deep,
Can ye not hear its music low
Lulling my soul to sleep?

I go — I go — Oh Earth!
Thy glist'ning dreams are o'er;
The voice of Love — the song of mirth,
Shall never bless me more.
The yellow leaves that fall
Around me in decay,
Have spirit tones, that gently call
My yearning soul away.

But tears will have their way,
Thus — thus unknown to fade,
Oh why — why am I called away,
Ere one bright wreath I've made?

Sweet flowers, that sleep in earth
Will burst dark winter's chain,
And deck the world with love and mirth,
When spring doth smile again.

And must I with'ring lie,
On earth's cold mould'ring breast?
No! no! my soul shall wake on high,
Where flow'rs immortal rest.
Thou — thou a seraph's song
My harp's full notes shall wake,
And soon, oh soon, an angel throng,
Their deep response shall make

Then, Autumn's plaintive moan,
Shall breathe of death no theme,
But flow'rs and leaves now seared and strewn,
Shall bloom in fadeless spring
And man is but a flow'r,
Cut down a little while,
To wake again in Eden's bower,
'Neath Spring's eternal smile.