Behold that Tree, in Autumn’s dim decay, 
   Stript by the frequent, chill, and eddying Wind; 
   Where yet some yellow, lonely leaves we find 
   Lingering and trembling on the naked spray, 
Twenty, perchance, for millions whirl'd away! 
   Emblem, alas! too just, of Humankind! 
   Vain Man expects longevity, design'd 
   For few indeed; and their protracted day 
What is it worth that Wisdom does not scorn? 
   The blasts of Sickness, Care, and Grief appal, 
   That laid the Friends in dust, whose natal morn 
Rose near their own;—and solemn is the call;— 
   Yet, like those weak, deserted leaves forlorn, 
   Shivering they cling to life, and fear to fall!