Life is a vapor of the morn, 'Tis Errors' unavailing sleep, And scarce our eyes behold the light, Ere we begin to sigh and weep.

Our years, and months, and weeks, and days, Fly swift, and never can return, And "creeping in this petty space," We always have some cause to mourn.

The cup of joy, one moment fair, Inviting stands before our view, The next, our prospects are o'ercast, With sorrow's dark and sable hue.

The threatening storm of woe descends, And falls on the devoted head, We sink beneath the chastning rod, And find our earthly comforts fled.

And 'oft some friend or kindred dear, Who holds a place within the heart, Is sudden call'd from earth away, Forever from us doom'd to part.

Then will the tears of anguish flow, Our souls be overwhelm'd in grief, We anxious turn on every side, And seek in vain for sweet relief.

Oh! while we serious think of those, Who late were sailing on the wave, They who in manhood's ripening bloom, Untimely met a watery grave.

May we to solemn thoughts incline, Reflecting that the life of man, E'en at its most extended date, Is but a short, uncertain span.

Their prospects on that fatal morn, Perhaps with joy were fair and bright, But ah! the cruel spoiler came, Their eyes were clos'd in death ere night.

Oh! may their sad and sudden fate, A warning be to those who live; May they prepare to meet their doom, That doom from which there's no reprieve.

May we remember, that each hour, We nearer draw towards our death, And that the Almighty hath the power, Each moment to demand our breath.

Our life is but a slender thread, Broke with the very slightest touch; Then should each moment be improv'd, Since mortals have to do so much.

Then let us strive to fit our souls, For that eternal happy state, Where sin and sorrow cannot come, Where we may live with joy elate.

The noblest works of art must fall, And bend unto the stroke of doom, But virtue in another world, Will flourish fair beyond the tomb.