No wan Disease, to steal the rose away!
And write at Beauty’s door, “Decay, Decay”—
Oh! no—the Future, Virtue’s happy clime—
The land beyond the grave, untouched by time,
Where the worn soul throws off its mortal clay—
And, god-like, springs to Heaven’s eternal day—
The realm of bliss—where, with a joy half wild,
The mother clasps and cherishes her child—
The widow claims her long lost son—the maid
Her plighted lover, years to her a shade—