The End of Time

              Thou who art dreary
           With a cureless woe,
              Thou who art weary
           Of all things below,
              Thou who art weeping
           By the loved sick bed,
              Thou who art keeping
           Watches o'er the dead,—
  Hope, hope! old Time flies fast upon his way,
And soon will cease the night, and soon will dawn
                  the day.

              The rose blooms brightly,
           But it fades ere night;
              And youth flies lightly,
           Yet how sure its flight!
              And still the river
           Merges in the sea;
              And Death reigns ever
           Whilst old Time shall be;—
  Yet hope! old Time flies fast upon his way,
And soon will cease the night, and soon will dawn
                  the day.

              All we most cherish
           In this world below,
              What though it perish?
           It has aye been so.
              So through all ages
           It has ever been,
              To fools and sages,
           Noble men and mean:—
  Yet hope, still hope ! for Time flies on his way,
And soon will end the night, and soon will dawn
                  the day.

              All of each nation
           Shall that morning see
              With exultation
           Or with misery:
              From watery slumbers,
           From the opening sod,
              Shall rise up numbers
           To be judged by God.
  Then hope and fear, for Time speeds on his way,
And soon must end the night, and soon must dawn
                  the day.