So fades the love­ly, bloom­ing flow­er,
Frail, smil­ing so­lace of an hour!
So soon our tran­si­ent com­forts fly,
And plea­sure on­ly blooms to die!

To cer­tain trou­ble we are born,
Hope to re­joice, but sure to mourn.
Ah wretch­ed ef­fort! sad re­lief,
To plead ne­ces­si­ty of grief!

Is there no kind, no le­ni­ent art,
To heal the ang­uish of the heart?
To ease the hea­vy load of care,
Which na­ture must, but can­not bear?

Can rea­son’s dic­tates be obeyed?
Too weak, alas, her strong­est aid!
O let re­li­gion then be nigh,
Her com­forts were not made to die.

Her pow­er­ful aid sup­ports the soul,
And na­ture owns her kind con­trol;
While she un­folds the sac­red page,
Our fierc­est griefs re­sign their rage.

Then gen­tle pa­tience smiles on pain,
And dy­ing hope re­vives again;
Hope wipes the tear from sor­row’s eye,
And faith points up­ward to the sky.

The pro­mise guides her ar­dent flight,
And joys un­known to sense in­vite,
Those bliss­ful re­gions to ex­plore,
Where plea­sure blooms, to fade no more.