Cruel, scornful hand! that dying I should live?
My hapless soul shall spend
The days, the months, the years,
In sad laments that ne'er shall reach their close.
'Midst joys that have no end
Thy soul shall know no fears
Of stubborn time—forgot for aye thy woes;
Secure in thy repose,
The bliss thou shalt behold
That thy good life hath won