Life is the road to death. No one can lose the way--'tis sure and
plain. Whatever paths we take all end the same. Some walk in sunshine,
and some beneath a cloud; some gather flowers and some the thorn; but
at the gate all stand alike: nor poverty, nor wealth can enter there.

To those who smile, and those who weep,
To those who sing, and those who sigh,
There comes the same long final sleep,--
There comes the time when each must die.

We watch the faces as they pass--
We say of some, "How very fair":
Nor think how soon the churchyard grass
Will thrive upon the beauty there.

The objects of our love we take
Close to our hearts and call them ours!
They are the gods we ne'er forsake,
But crown them every morn with flowers.

We dip them o'er and o'er again
In love's immortal fount; but when
We find that all has been in vain,
God shield us in our anguish then.

The Death-drum beats, the roll is called,
New names are on the list to-day:
Some answer calm and unappalled
As if 'twere pleasure to obey.