Vain transient World, what charms are thine?
And what do mortals in thee see,
That they should worship at thy shrine,
And sacrifice their all to thee?
Thy brightest gifts, thy happiest hours
Fly past on pinions of the wind;
They fade like blooms upon the flowers,
And leave a painful want behind.
Thou art a road, though not of space,
Which rich and poor alike must tread;
Thy starting point we cannot trace,
Thine end — the country of the dead.
A pathway paved with want and woe,
With pleasures painful, incomplete;
Like stones upon the way below,
Which wound the weary pilgrim's feet.
Thou'rt hedged with visions of despair,
With words of hate, with looks of scorn;
Like wayside thorns which pierce and tear
The fainting traveller weak and worn.
Relentless odium's bitter ill,
Cold disregard thy ways infest;
Like wintry blasts that chill and kill
The very heart within the breast.