Thursday, April 7, 2022




Whatsoever the hands find to do, do with thy might, for there is no work nor device in the grave

whither thou goest."

Exceeding far the swiftest steed,

Unseen and silent, with them speed,

And fast as stars fleet through the sky,
The wings of time are passing by.

So onward rushes life along,

As brief as e'en a trifler's song,

Which, while 'tis heard, died on the air,

Which goes, but who can tell us where?

How swift the moments fly!

The years how few, before we die,

Before we merge into the gloom,

The darkness surging around the tomb!

Then, oh! be strong to serve the right,

Your arm nerved high with holy might;

And ever hence, while yet you may,

Stern duty's clarion voice obey.

Aye, do! for know there's no return

To do with trifler's now may spurn,

Although, perchance with anguish deep,

Neglected works the spirit weep.

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