What an arm—what a waist

Lightly I sped when hope was high And youth beguiled the chase,— I follow, follow still: But I Shall never see her face.

"Vanitas vanitatum" has rung in the ears Of gentle and simple for thousands of years; The wail still is heard, yet its notes never scare Either simple or gentle from Vanity Fair.

And this was your Cradle? Why, surely, my Jenny, Such cozy dimensions go clearly to show You were an exceedingly small pickaninny, Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago.

The world's as ugly, ay, as Sin,— And almost as delightful.

The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its way, And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay; And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes Upon the fast receding hills that dim and distant rise.

So All is diff’rent, and yet All is One.