A cruse full of oil, with nothing more rife;
Yet what saith the prophet? It never shall fail:
Life is perennial, of immortal avail.
'Tis hard to believe, for to dust we return,
To lie like the ashes in a burial urn;
But look at the skies! see the heavenly bowers!
The urn is a vase—the ashes are flowers!
'Tis hard to believe; like a jar full of tears,
Life is filled with humanity's griefs and fears;
'Tis a tear-jar o'erflowing, close by the urn,