One dark hour before the eternal dawn.
Riches, glory, honor, fame, ambition—
All as swiftly fly, as soon are fled;
Or, if gathered, mend they our condition?
What delight can these afford the dead?
Chase no more the phantom of the dreaming—
Weary is the hunt, the capture vain;
When thy arms embrace the golden seeming,
It will vanish from thy grasp again.
Trouble not thy heart with anxious carings—