Then, with a melancholy glee

To think where once my fancy strayed,
I muse on what the years may be
Whose coming tales are all unsaid,
Till tongs and shovel, snugly laid
Within their shadowed niches, grow
By grim degrees to pick and spade,
As one by one the phantoms go.

But then, what though the mystic Three
Around me ply their merry trade?
And Charon soon may carry me
Across the gloomy Stygian glade?
Be up, my soul ; nor be afraid
Of what some unborn year may show ;
But mind your human debts are paid,
As one by one the phantoms go.

Life is the game that must be played:
This truth at least, good friends, we know;
So live and laugh, nor be dismayed
As one by one the phantoms go.

In dreams I crossed a barren land,
A land of ruin, far away;
Around me hung on every hand
A deathful stillness of decay;

And silent, as in bleak dismay