my reader, I must close,
Yet I feel anxious to compose
As much again, if I could find
Words all important for the mind.
Some time before I dare begin,--
A work commencing with my pen,
But still encourag'd by each friend,
I hope the time to rightly spend.
It does become us all full well--
To act the part that will excel,
And keep each precept in our heart,
That never ought, but may depart.
Our days pass on--a fleeting year,
Once more has swept our broad career;
What if our tongues in silence sleep,
And we no more time's call can greet!
Oh! let the soul her slumber break,
Let thought be quicken'd and awake--
How soon this life is passed and gone,
And death comes softly stealing on.
Swiftly our pleasures glide away,
Our hearts recall the distant day,
The moments that are speeding fast,
We heed not--but the past--the past.
Death is most sure for all mankind,
It's what our Father had design'd;
He has prepared all future time,
And He can say,--all nature's mine.
Grant that we each trust in the Lord,
And ne'er forget His holy word;
It is all wise, the better book,
And all who care will in it look.
Then shall our glories rise, and fair,
Nor spot, nor stain, nor wrinkle bear,
Then shall we reach our Saviour's home--
And never, never, more to roam.
Oh! deep the horror, fierce the sound,
A voice from its sepulchral ground,--
Says,--"I am the grave, the still dark womb,
Where mortals all must find a tomb."