Life is a span, a fleeting hour

Life is a span, a fleeting hour;

How soon the vapour flies!

Man is a tender transient, flow'r,

That e'en in blooming dies.

The once-lov'd form, now cold and dead,

Each mournful thought employs;

And nature weeps her comforts fled,

And wither'd all her joys.

But wait the interposing gloom,

And lo! stern winter flies;

And, dress'd in beauty's fairest bloom,

The flow'ry 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.