The grass and flowers which clothe the field,
And look so green and gay,
Touched by the scythe, defenceless yield,
And fall, and fade away.
Fit emblem of our mortal state!
Thus, in the Scripture-glass,
The young, the strong, the wise, the great,
May see themselves but grass.
Ah! trust not to your fleeting breath,
Nor call your time your own,
Around you see the scythe of death
Is mowing thousands down.
And you, who hitherto are spared,
Must shortly yield your lives:
Your wisdom is to be prepared,
Before the stroke arrives.
The grass, when dead, revives no more;
You die to live again;
But O! if death should prove the door,
To everlasting pain!