This World Is All A Fleeting Show. (Air.--Stevenson.)
By Thomas Moore
This world is all a fleeting show,
For man's illusion given;
The smiles of joy, the tears of woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow--
There's nothing true but Heaven!
And false the light on glory's plume,
As fading hues of even;
And love and hope, and beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gathered for the tomb--
There's nothing bright but Heaven!
Poor wanderers of a stormy day,
From wave to wave we're driven,
And fancy's flash and reason's ray
Serve but to light the troubled way--
There's nothing calm but Heaven!