A bed of roses has many a thorn;
Pain, hardships and suff’ring are of earth born.
Life is not a road that runs smooth and straight;
They on whom we shower love may return hate.
Life has many a wild and worthless dream;
Yet, how many a low thing we esteem!
Power and all fade with the breaking dawn;
And with them all bright prospects are withdrawn.
Farewell to thee, o sweet and fragrant flower;
Power and Beauty take leave at Death’s hour.
Howe’er great or grand to men thou may be,
When Death looms o’erhead, no man can save thee.
Fare-thee-well, dear reader, be brave at heart;
Fight the good fight, then with a smile depart.