And through the vale of death we pass to life;
But what is there in death to blast our hopes?
Behold the universal works of nature,
Where life still springs from death.
Mark with what hopes upon the furrowed plain
The careful ploughman casts the pregnant grain;
There hid, as in a grave, awhile it lies,
Till the revolving season bids it rise;
Then large increase the buried treasures yield,
And with full harvest crown the plenteous field.