Once on my throbbing bosom lay
Sweet budding blossoms, fair as they,
Fraught with immortal minds.
'Neath summer skies these flow'rs will fade—
Fair emblems of the youthful dead,
But spring restores their bloom.
Just so the saints that droop and die,
When Gabriel's trump shall rend the sky,
Will leave the mould'ring tomb.
They'll leave this dull, this earthly sod,