To a Friend, on the Death of a Child

Life is a span, a fleeting hour,
How soon the vapour flies!
Man is a tender, transient flower,
That ev'n in blooming dies.

Death spreads like winter's frozen arms,
And beauty smiles no more:
Ah! where are now those rising charms
Which pleas'd our eyes before?

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

But wait the interposing gloom,
And lo, stern winter flies;
And drest in beauty's fairest bloom,
The flow'ry tribes arise.

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

Then cease, fond nature, cease thy tears,
Religion points on high;
There everlasting spring appears,
And joys that cannot die.