And What Is Life? An Hour-Glass On The Run, A Mist Retreating From The Morning Sun, A Busy, Bustling, Still Repeated Dream; Its Length?--A Minute'S Pause, A Moment'S Thought; And Happiness?--A Bubble On The Stream, That In The Act Of Seizing Shrinks To Nought. What Are Vain Hopes?--The Puffing Gale Of Morn, That Of Its Charms Divests The Dewy Lawn, And Robs Each Flow'ret Of Its Gem,--And Dies; A Cobweb Hiding Disappointment'S Thorn, Which Stings More Keenly Through The Thin Disguise. And What Is Death? Is Still The Cause Unfound? That Dark, Mysterious Name Of Horrid Sound?-- A Long And Lingering Sleep, The Weary Crave. And Peace? Where Can Its Happiness Abound? No Where At All, Save Heaven, And The Grave. Then What Is Life?--When Stripp'D Of Its Disguise, A Thing To Be Desir'D It Cannot Be, Since Everything That Meets Our Foolish Eyes Gives Proof Sufficient Of Its Vanity. 'T Is But A Trial All Must Undergo, To Teach Unthankful Mortals How To Prize That Happiness Vain Man'S Denied To Know Until He's Called To Claim It In The Skies.