I

Vain the bliss from earth that springs,--

Life is but an empty shade;

All our toil its bounty brings,

Made of what our dreams are made.

II

When with toil the mountain's height

Lies beneath our weary feet;

When the goal we kept in sight,

Yields the victory to the fleet;--

III

Fades the landscape from our view,

Droops the laurel on our brow,

False the things we thought were true,

Gone the joys that lured us, now.

IV

Ah! the world we gain to lose,

Ends our triumph with the grave;

All earth's wealth and power refuse

What vain hope exulting gave.

V

Christ, Thou Lover of our race,

When the strife of earth is o'er,

Give our weary souls a place,

In Thy Kingdom evermore.