Wallace C.M.

Life is a span—a fleeting hour—

How soon the vapor flies!

Man is a tender, transient flower,

That ev'n while blooming—dies.

 

The once loved form, now cold and dead,

Each mournful thought employs;

And nature weeps her comforts fled,

And withered all her joys.

 

Hope looks beyond the bounds of time,

When what we now deplore

Shall rise in full, immortal prime,

And bloom to fade no more.

 

Cease then, fond nature, cease thy tears—

Thy Savior dwells on high;

There everlasting spring appears—

There joys shall never die.