'The evening passes fast away,
⁠'Tis almost time to rest;
What thoughts has left the vanished day,
⁠What feelings in thy breast?'

'The vanished day? It leaves a sense
⁠Of labour hardly done;
Of little gained with vast expense—
⁠A sense of grief alone!

'Time stands before the door of Death,
⁠Upbraiding bitterly;
And Conscience, with exhaustless breath,
⁠Pours black reproach on me:

'And though I've said that Conscience lies,
⁠And Time should Fate condemn;
Still, sad Repentance clouds my eyes,
⁠And makes me yield to them!'

'Then art thou glad to seek repose?
⁠Art glad to leave the sea,
And anchor all thy weary woes
⁠In calm Eternity?