Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

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 gather’d for the tomb—

There ’s nothing bright, but Heaven!

Poor wand’rers 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!