We learn from it that we but live to die.
The sun will set though shining e'er so bright,
A few short fleeting hours, and all again is night.
Yet sunshine seldom cheers the lot of life,
'Tis all a scene of ling'ring pain and woe,
A pilgrimage of fruitless care and strife,
A tide of sorrow that doth ceaseless flow;
Yet some have thought they felt a joy below,
Which to their darker hours did solace prove,
Making their hearts with blissful feelings glow;