Say, who could tell what aching sighs,
What tears from heavy, grief-dimmed eyes,
Have here been shed in silent woe,
Mourning the cold, still form below;
Or o'er past harshness, coldness, hate,
Grieving, alas! too late--too late!

Oh, man, vain dreamer of this life,
Seeking 'mid restless toil and strife
For wealth, for happiness, for fame,
Thirsting to make thyself a name,
See, unto what thy course doth tend,
Of all thy toils--there is the end.

Woman, of grace or beauty proud,
Seeking alone gay fashion's crowd,--
Thine aim, admiring looks to win,
E'en at the price of folly or sin,
That beauty now to thee so dear,
Would'st thou know its fate? Look around thee, here.

But not alone such lessons stern
May we within the grave-yard learn:
'Tis here the servant wise and good,
Who loyal to his trust hath stood,
Will joyously at length lay down
The heavy cross to receive the crown.

And hope, sweet messenger of God,
Poised lightly 'bove the charnel sod,