1 O, stay thy tears! for they are blest
Whose days are past, whose toil is done;
Here midnight care disturbs our rest,
Here sorrow dims the morning sun.
2 For laboring virtue’s anxious toil,
For patient sorrow’s stifled sigh,
For faith that marks the conqueror’s spoil,
Heaven grants the recompense,—to die.
3 How blest are they whose transient years
Pass like an evening meteor’s flight,