Life is a span, a fleet­ing hour,
How soon the va­por flies!
Man is a ten­der, tran­si­ent flow­er,
That e’en in bloom­ing dies!

Death spreads like win­ter’s froz­en arms,
And beau­ty smiles no more;
Ah! where are now those ris­ing charms
Which pleased our eyes be­fore?

The once loved form, now cold and dead,
Each mourn­ful thought em­ploys;
And na­ture weeps, her com­forts fled,
And wi­thered all her joys.

But wait the in­ter­pos­ing gloom
And lo, win­ter flies!
And dressed in beau­ty’s fair­est bloom
The flow­ery tribes arise.

Hope looks be­yond the bounds of time;
When what we now de­plore,
Shall rise in full im­mor­tal prime,
And bloom to fade no more.

Then cease, fond na­ture, cease thy tears,
Religion points on high;
There ev­er­last­ing spring ap­pears,
And joys that can­not die.