Classic Poem

The Garden's sweet, luxuriant grace,
Proclaims our Maker's pow'r;
His Wisdom we can clearly trace
In ev'ry Herb and Flow'r.

The modest Lily, fragrant Rose,
And Plants of varied dye;
Our frail mortality disclose,
To each observing eye.

In these, vain man, behold thy state,
The pride of Life survey;
See the sad image of thy fate,
To bloom, and then decay.

In Spring thy under blossoms shoot,
In Summer gain their height;
Unless the branches, and the root,
Receive a fatal blight.

Or should'st thou reach Autumnal prime
In Reason's strength mature,
Old Age, the Winter of thy time,
Thy exit will ensure.

Yet what avails the awful gloom,
Which fun'ral rites display?
We rise triumphant from the Tomb,
To scenes of endless day.

Why then art thou, so fond of Life?
Why so averse to death?
We vanquish misery and strife,
When we resign our breath.

Virtue alone resists the pow'r,
And foils the pointed dart;
She triumphs in the mortal hour,
Rejoic'd from Life to part:

In conq'ring Death, defies the Grave,
An happier state explores;
Seeks the Redeemer, who can save,
And God, whom she adores.