English poem
(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!
OH THOU WHO DRY'ST THE MOURNER'S TEAR.