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8, 8, 6



My days, my weeks, my months, my years,

Fly rapid as the whirling spheres

Around the steady pole;

Time, like the tide, its motion keeps,

And I must launch through endless deeps,

Where endless ages roll.


The grave is near, the cradle seen,

How swift the moments pass between,

And whisper as they fly;

Unthinking man, remember this,

Though fond of sublunary bliss,

That you must groan and die.


My soul, attend the solemn call,

Thine earthly tent must shortly fall

And thou must take thy flight

Beyond the vast expansive blue,

To sing above as angels do.

Or sink in endless night.

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