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Thither the mighty torrents stray,
Thither the brook pursues its way,
And tinkling rill.

There all are equal. Side by side
The poor man and the son of pride
Lie calm and still.

I will not here invoke the throng
Of orators and sons of song,

The deathless few;

Fiction entices and deceives,

And, sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves,
Lies poisonous dew.

To One alone my thoughts arise,

The Eternal Truth, the Good and Wise,

To Him I cry,

Who shared on earth our common lot,
But the world comprehended not
His deity.

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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,
In 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.


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 accident, and change,

That comes 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 escutcheon, 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.


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