O hark un­to the sound­ing bell,
What doth each stroke of toll­ing tell?
’Tis news to each at­tent­ive ear,
Some one is fit­ted for the bier.

Since death is li­censed here to rage
Without re­spect to any age;
The hoa­ry head, and youth in bloom,
Depart to their eter­nal home.

Death with an un­con­trol­lèd force,
Will take his way and have his course;
Infectious air and pes­ti­lence
Are not re­pulsed by man’s de­fense.

They who had thought the world their own
Are with the mean­est class cut down;
Both king and prin­ces have to die.
And lay their pow’rs and hon­ors by.

This is our just re­ward in­deed,
What can we say, what can we plead?
Were we not warned, and warned again?
But all we heard, we heard in vain.

But now we feel, we learn to fear,
God’s threat­ened pun­ish­ments are here:
What can we do, but plead and pray,
That God may turn His wrath away?