In vain,-- there is no slack'ning and no rest,
No flagging in our headlong reckless race;
In vain with clutching grasp and yearning breast
We strive to check the steeds of Time and Space:

All rushes on; no creature stops an hour;
The babe, the boy, the man, the dotard -- dies;
Perpetual changes vex the wayside flower,
And the great worlds careering through the skies.

Yet is it sad that Beauty scarce can bloom,
Hardly can Wisdom drop one word of truth,
Before the sage is humbled to the tomb,
And wrinkles gather round the eyes of youth.

Alas! because it hardens us at heart,
This constant moving-on,-- this phantom scene
Of daily hourly meetings soon to part,
And made to be as they had never been:

New hopes, new motives, all things ever new
Expelling all things old, however dear,
Uproot the mind from growing strong and true,
And the poor heart in all its longings sear.

A gloom, a solemn sadness, and a hope--
A mighty hope, but mix'd with bitter dread,
All lie within this sad reflection's scope
That nothing is that shall not soon be dead:

We wake,-- and yesterday is thrown behind
To play to-day's half-masqueraded part;
Energy cheering on the hopeful mind,
But pale-faced Memory holding back the heart.

Alas! I cannot read these thoughts aright;
I fain would say that we shall see once more
Some resurrection of the visions bright
That here, like mountain-mists, have swept us o'er:

I fain, in this perpetual moving-on,
Would see the shadowy type of stabler things;
Old loves renew'd, old victories rewon,
Old chords restruck upon the old heartstrings!

If otherwise, it were a waste,-- a loss
Of truth and beauty, happiness and love;
But -- there are all redemption in the cross,
And more than Space and Time in Heaven above!