Think not that Death malignly waits,
A weapon of the hostile Fates,
   To stike the sinner down;
'Tis but a link in Nature's plan
To join succeding growths of man,
   And life complete to crown.

All finite things unfailing tend
From a beginning to an end,
   For what is Time but Change?
What goal of growth could Life possess,
If stretch'd out into emptiness,
   With bleak unbounded range?

What bard with grace could ever sing
The cloying charm of endless Spring,
   Or Praise eternal day?
Since man is tun'd to Time alone,
The wise in Death a friend must own,
   And bow to Nature's way!