C.M.
1
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.
2
Fit emblem of our mortal state!
Thus, in the Scripture-glass,
The young, the strong, the wise, the great,
May see themselves but grass.
3
Ah! trust not to your fleeting breath,
Nor call your time your own,
Around you see the scythe of death
Is mowing thousands down.
4
And you, who hitherto are spared,
Must shortly yield your lives:
Your wisdom is to be prepared,
Before the stroke arrives.
5
The grass, when dead, revives no more;
You die to live again;
But O! if death should prove the door,
To everlasting pain!
