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Upon her heaving bosom fell.Oh rival, free from envy's sway,Thou precious gift, thou beauteous prey.

Ever, ever, on he rushes,Leaves the towers' flame-tipp'd summits,Marble palaces, the offspringOf his fullness, far behind.

Smilingly answered the pastor:--"Death's stirring image is neitherUnto the wise a cause of alarm,--or an end to the pious.Back into life it urges the former, and teaches him action,And, for the weal of the latter, it strengthens his hope in affliction.Death is a giver of life unto both. Your father did wronglyWhen to the sensitive boy he pointed out death in its own form.Unto the youth should be shown the worth of a noble and ripen'dAge, and unto the old man, youth, that both may rejoice inThe eternal circle, and life may in life be made perfect!"