This world is but the rugged road

Which leads us to the bright abode
Of peace above;

So let us choose that narrow way,

Which leads no traveller's foot astray

From realms of love.

Our cradle is the starting-place,

İn life we run the onward race,

And reach the goal;

When, in the mansions of the blest,

Death leaves to its eternal rest

The weary soul.

Did we but use it as we ought,

This world would school each wandering

To its high state.

[thought

Faith wings the soul beyond the sky,

Up to that better world on high,

For which we wait.

Yes, the glad messenger of love,
To guide us to our home above,

The Saviour came;

Born amid mortal cares and fears,

He suffered in this vale of tears

A death of shame.

Behold of what delusive worth

The bubbles we pursue on earth,

The shapes we chase,

Amid a world of treachery!

They vanish ere death shuts the eye,

And leave no trace.

Time steals them from us,

chances strange,

Disastrous accidents, and change,

That come to all;

Even in the most exalted state,

Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate;

The strongest fall.

Tell me,

the charms that lovers seek

In the clear eye and blushing cheek,

The hues that play

O'er rosy lip and brow of snow,

When hoary age approaches slow,

Ah, where are they?

The cunning skill, the curious arts,

The glorious strength that youth imparts

In life's first stage ;

These shall become a heavy weight,

When Time swings wide his outward gate

To weary age.

The noble blood of Gothic name,
Heroes emblazoned high to fame,

In long array;

How, in the onward course of time,

The landmarks of that race sublime

Were swept away!

Some, the degraded slaves of lust,
Prostrate and trampled in the dust,
Shall rise no more ;

Others, by guilt and crime, maintain
The scutcheon, that, without a stain,
Their fathers bore.

Wealth and the high estate of pride,
With what untimely speed they glide,
How soon depart!

Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay,
The vassals of a mistress they,

Of fickle heart.

These gifts in Fortune's hands are found; Her swift revolving wheel turns round,

And they are gone!

No rest the inconstant goddess knows,

But changing, and without repose,

Still hurries on.

Even could the hand of avarice save

Its gilded baubles, till the grave

Reclaimed its prey,

Let none on such poor hopes rely;
Life, like an empty dream, flits by,

And where are they?

Earthly desires and sensual lust

Are passions springing from the dust, -

They fade and die ;

But, in the life beyond the tomb,

They seal the immortal spirit's doom
Eternally!

The pleasures and delights, which mask

In treacherous smiles life's serious task,

What are they, all,

But the fleet coursers of the chase,

And death an ambush in the race,

Wherein we fall?