Thou art gone to the grave; but we will not deplore thee, Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb.

Death rides on every passing breeze, He lurks in every flower.

Thus heavenly hope is all serene, But earthly hope, how bright soe'er, Still fluctuates o'er this changing scene, As false and fleeting as 't is fair.

When Spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laughing soil.