Thou art passing away, thou art passing away,
Thy life has been brief as a midsummer day;
Thy forehead is pale, and thy pulses are low,
And thy once blooming cheek wears the ominous glow.
Thou art passing away from the beautiful earth,
Thy much loved abode, and the land of thy birth;
From its forests and fields—from its murmuring rills,
From its beautiful plains and its herbage crowned hills.
Thou art passing away from thy kindred and friends,
And the last chain that bound thee, the spoiler now rends;
And thy last tones are falling on loves listening ear,
And now in thine eye shines the fond, parting tear.
Thou art passing away, as the first summer rose,
That awaits not the time when the winter wind blows,
But hasteth away on the autumn's quick gale,
And scatters its odors o'er mountain and dale.
The light of thy beauty has faded and gone,
For the withering chills have already come on;
Thy charms have departed—thy glory is fled;
And thou soon wilt be laid in the house of the dead.
Thou shalt soon be consigned to the cold, dreary tomb,
The lot of all living—mortality's doom:
Thou shalt there sweetly rest in the calmest repose,
Undisturbed by life's cares, and unpierced by its owes.
"Who, who would live always away from his God?
Away from yon heaven, the blissful abode,
where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains,
And the noontide of glory eternally reigns?"