Hail ye sighing sons of sorrow,
Learn with me your certain doom;
Learn with me your fate tomorrow,
Dead, perhaps laid in the tomb.
See all nature fading, dying,
Silent, all things seem to mourn,
Life from vegetation flying,
Calls to mind the mould’ring urn.
Fast my sun of lifes declining,
Soon ’twill set in endless night,
But my hopes, pure and reviving,
Rise to fairer worlds of light.
Cease this trembling, mourning, sighing,
Death shall burst this sullen gloom;
Then my spirit, flutt’ring, fly-ing,
Shall be borne beyond the tomb.