Poetry of the Magyars — II. Dal. 130

Scarce upon the troubled ocean
Doth life's steersman seek a home,
Ere he feels an awful motion
Drag him downwards to the tomb.
In the very bud of being
Lies the hidden seed of death;
And we feel, and hear, and see in
All, perdition's withering breath.
'Tis a hasty, busy meeting,
An eternal farewell greeting,
Hurrying all our paths along
Life as fugitive as song.