Life is a span—a fleeting hour;

How soon the vapor flies!

Man is a tender, transient flower,

That, even in blooming, dies.

2 The once-loved form, now cold and dead,

Each mournful thought employs;

And nature weeps her comforts fled,

And withered all her joys.

3 Hope looks beyond the bounds of time,

When what we now deplore

Shall rise in full, immortal prime,

And bloom to fade no more.

4 Cease then, fond nature, cease thy tears,

Religion points on high;

There everlasting spring appears,

And joys that can not die.