Fly, ye hours, the best, the brightest:
Best are they that fleet the lightest!
              Man, be wise:
              Thy earthly joys
Are poor, compared with those thou slightest.

              The world we roam
              Is not our home:
We seek a rest that aye remaineth.
              Through weal or woe,
              From all below
We haste to scenes where nothing paineth.
   
                           Fly, ye hours, &c.

              It is not life,
              This toil and strife:
These only serve from God to sever.
              We hope to rise
              Above the skies;
And there shall live, and live for ever.

                           Fly, ye hours, &c.

              Can that be gain,
              Whose charms detain
The soul from glory's richer treasures?
              Can that be woe,
              That serves to throw
A brighter hue o'er coming pleasures?
Fly, ye hours, the best, the brightest!
Thou that in the world delightest,
              Rise, O rise
              To nobler joys;
And taste the bliss which now thou slightest.