Through these branched walks will contemplation wind,
And grave wise Nature’s teachings on his mind;
As the white grave-stones glimmer to his eye,
A solemn voice will thrill him, “Thou must die!”
When autumn’s tints are glittering in the air,
That voice will whisper to his soul “Prepare!”
When winter’s snows are spread o’er hill and dell,
“Oh, this is death!” that solemn voice will swell;
But when with spring, streams leap, and blossoms wave,
“Hope, Christian, hope,” ’twill say, “there’s life beyond the grave.”