C old is the heart that late so gaily beat,
H ow pale that face, where smiles once beam’d so sweet,
A las! and is thy infant spirit fled!
R eturn’d to God? Then mourn not for the dead;
L ife here below is but a waking dream.
O ur longest years a little moment seem,
T oday alone is ours — Tomorrow, Ah!
T omorrow, who presumes to call his own?
E ternal God! We bow before thy Throne.
C.S.