Page:Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse.pdf/226



EV'N while we pause, the rapid date Of life comes rushing on, The sad heart feels the stroke of fate, We tremble and are gone:

Gone and forgot, the mourning eye May moisten as we sleep; But time shall sooth the rushing sigh, And dry the eyes that weep.

A little mound of turf, alone Shall shade our senseless breast; The clay-cold sod, the burial stone, Made dark with storms, with moss o'ergrown, Shall mark our place of rest.