Ill-Fated Hour! Oft As Thy Annual Reign Leads On Th' Autumnal Tide, My Pinion'D Joys Fade With The Glories Of The Fading Year; "Remembrance Wakes, With All Her Busy Train," And Bids Affection Heave The Heart-Drawn Sigh O'Er The Cold Tomb, Rich With The Spoils Of Death, And Wet With Many A Tributary Tear! Eight Times Has Each Successive Season Sway'D The Fruitful Sceptre Of Our Milder Clime Since My Loved----Died! But Why, Ah! Why Should Melancholy Cloud My Early Years? Religion Spurns Earth'S Visionary Scene, Philosophy Revolts At Misery'S Chain: Just Heaven Recall'D Its Own; The Pilgrim Call'D From Human Woes: From Sorrow'S Rankling Worm-- Shall Frailty Then Prevail? Oh! Be It Mine To Curb The Sigh Which Bursts O'Er Heaven'S Decree; To Tread The Path Of Rectitude--That When Life'S Dying Ray Shall Glimmer In The Frame, That Latest Breath I May In Peace Resign, "Firm In The Faith Of Seeing Thee And God."