Death of a youth.

LIFE is a span—a fleeting hour: How soon thy vapor flies! Man is a tender transient flow'r, That e'en in blooming dies.

The once-lov'd form, now cold and dead, Each mournful thought employs; And nature weeps her comfort fled, And wither'd all her joys.

Hope looks beyond the bounds of time, When what we now deplore; Shall rise in full immortal prime, And bloom to fade no more.

Cease, then, fond nature, cease thy tears, Thy Savior dwells on high There everlasting spring appears, There joys shall never die.