A funeral thought.

HARK' from the tomb a doleful sound! My ears attend the cry; "Ye living men, come view the ground, Where you must shortly lie.

"Princes, this clay must be your bed, In spite of all your towr's! The tall, the wise, the rev'rend head, Must lie as low as ours.

Great God! is this our certain doom? And are we still secure? Still walking downward to our tomb, And yet prepare no more!

Grant us the pow'r of quick'ning grace, To fit our souls to fly: Then, when we drop this dying flesh, We'll rise above the sky.