1. At length the busy day is done, And
2. Oh, God of hosts, with this day's close, How
yon bright orb, the glorious sun, Deep
many sleep in death's repose? And
in the west reclines his head, Where
with the sinking sun's decline, To
misty curtains shroud his bed.
thee their fleeting souls resign.

3. Hark! 'Tis the tolling bell I hear,
And slow and dull it strikes mine ear;
E'en whilst I tune my pensive song,
The solemn funeral moves along.

4. He whom this night th' expecting tomb,
Shall wrap within the dreary gloom,
At yester-morn, devoid of care,
Up rose and breathed the healthful air.

5. Therefore, my soul, thy thoughts employ
O God, thy glory, wealth, and joy;
Virtue alone is stable here,
Nought but religion is sincere.