THOU last pale relic from yon widow'd tree,
Hovering awhile in air, as if to leave
Thy native sprig reluctant, how I grieve,
And heave the sigh of kindred sympathy,
That thou art fall'n!--for I too whilom play'd
Upon the topmost bough of youth's gay spring;
Have sported blithe on summer's golden wing;
And now I see my fleeting autumn fade.
Yet, "sear and yellow leaf," though thou and I
Thus far resemble, and this frame, like thee,
In the cold silent ground be doom'd to lie,
Thou never more will climb thy parent tree;
But I, through faith in my Redeemer, trust,
That I shall rise again, ev'n from the dust.
