If it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.

ALL nature dies, and lives again; The flowers that paint the field, The trees that crown the mountain's brow, And boughs and blossoms yield.

Resign the honors of their form At winter's stormy blast, And leave the naked, leafless plain A desolated waste.

Yet soon reviving plants and flowers Anew shall deck the plain; The woods. shall hear the voice of spring, And flourish green again.

So, to the dreary grave consigned, Man sleeps in death's dark gloom, Until th' eternal morning wake The slumbers of the tomb.