Oh! Let the soul its slumber break,
Arouse its senses and awake,
To see how soon
Life, with its glory, glides away,
And the stern footsteps of decay
Come rolling on.
And while we eye the rolling tide
Down which our flowing minutes glide
Away so fast,
Let us the present hour employ,
And dream each future dream of joy
Let no vain hope deceive the mind;
No happier let us hope to find
Tomorrow than today.
Our golden dreams of yore were bright:
Like them, the present shall delight;
Like them, decay.
Our lives like hasting streams must be,
That into one engulfing sea
Are doomed to fall,--
The sea of death, whose waves roll on
O'er king and kingdom, crown and throne,
And swallow all.
Alike the river's lordly tide,
Alike the humble rivulet's glide,
To that sad wave;
Death levels poverty and pride,
And rich and poor sleep side by side
Within the grave;
Our birth is but the starting-place,
Life is the running of the race,
And death the goal;
There all those glittering toys are brought:
The path alone of all unsought
Is found of all.
Say, then, how poor and little worth
Are all those glittering toys of earth
That lure us here!
Dreams of a sleep that death must break:
Alas! before it bids us wake,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.