Classic Poem

Thou who art dreary
With a cureless woe,
Thou who art weary
Of all things below,
Thou who art weeping
By the loved sick-bed,
Thou who art keeping
Watches o'er the dead,
Hope, hope! old Time flies fast upon his way,
And soon will cease the night, and soon will dawn the day.

The rose blooms brightly,
But it fades ere night;
And youth flies lightly,
Yet how sure its flight!
And still the river
Merges in the sea,
And death reigns ever
Whilst old Time shall be;
Yet hope! old Time flies fast upon his way,
And soon will cease the night, and soon will dawn the day.

All we most cherish
In this world below,
What tho' it perish?
It has aye been so.
So thro' all ages
It has ever been
To fools and sages,
Noble men and mean:
Yet hope, still hope! for Time flies on his way,
And soon will end the night, and soon will dawn the day.

All of each nation
Shall that morning see
With exultation
Or with misery:
From watery slumbers,
From the opening sod,
Shall rise up numbers
To be judged by God.
Then hope and fear, for Time speeds on his way,
And soon must end the night, and soon must dawn the day.