How oft, directed by the friendly care,
Silent, I’d range the church yard’s awful gloom,
Musing the fatal stroke I once must share,
A wither’d victim to the cheerless tomb.
“There weigh my dust:” prepare for that grand scene,
When life’s last blaze shall quiver to decay:
Then I’d exult in thee, my sacred theme,
And sure companion thro’ the trackless way.
E’en now with secret rapture I survey,
When my freed soul shall break her chain, and rise