On! on! our moments hurry by
Like shadows of a passing cloud,
Till general darkness wraps the sky,
And man sleeps senseless in his shroud.
He sports, he trifles time away,
Till time is his to waste no more:
Heedless he hears the surges play,
And then is dashed upon the shore.
He has no thought of coming days,
Though they alone deserve his thought:
And so the heedless wanderer strays,
And treasures nought, and gathers nought.
Though Wisdom speak-his ear is dull;
Though Virtue smile-he sees her not;
His cup of vanity is full;
And all besides forgone-forgot.