Death of a Child.
1 Life is a span,--a fleeting hour:
How soon the vapor flies!
Man is a tender, transient flower,
That e'en in blooming dies.
2 The once-loved form, now cold and dead,
Each mournful thought employs;
And nature weeps, her comforts fled,
And withered all her joys.
3 Hope looks beyond the bounds of time,
When what we now deplore
Shall rise in full, immortal prime,
And bloom to fade no more.
4 Cease, then, fond nature, cease thy tears;
Thy Saviour dwells on high;
There everlasting spring appears;
There joy shall never die.