That sudden flit, and disappear?
Does fancy form the solemn tone
Which vibrates on my aching ear?
Howe’er it be---aloud they call---
To quit in haste this mortal coil,
And rise above the earthly ball,
The scene of sorrow, pain, and toil.
Philander, Dorus, Delia bless’d!
I hear the voice, and haste away,
To scenes where Sorrow’s children rest,