Pause, cold observer, pause awhile;
Why will not death thy thoughts beguile?
Think ye for ever to abide
By this deluding desert side?
O wanderer, turn;
O wanderer, stay;
Why will ye spurn
The voice to-day?
A little while--
An hour--may bring
A broken smile,
Death on the wing,
To bear thee down
By laden grief
Beneath his frown.
The time is brief.
Then stay, oh stay!
And lend an ear
To what the dead--
The dying say.
Thy doom is hid,
Thy death is near;
The Judge will bid
Thee soon appear.