Life Is a Span, a Fleeting Hour

Life is a span

a fleet­ing hour

How soon the va­por flies!

Man is a ten­der

tran­si­ent flow­er

That e’en in bloom­ing dies!

Death spreads like win­ter’s froz­en arms

And beau­ty smiles no more;

Ah! where are now those ris­ing charms

Which pleased our eyes be­fore?

The once loved form

now cold and dead

Each mourn­ful thought em­ploys;

And na­ture weeps

her com­forts fled

And wi­thered all her joys.

But wait the in­ter­pos­ing gloom

And lo

win­ter flies!

And dressed in beau­ty’s fair­est bloom

The flow­ery 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.