From the Ladies’ Companion, November, 1837
DEATH is a mighty conqueror,—
All seasons are his own ;
And o’er the pleasant fields of earth
His trophies wide are strewn.
As months and years swift glide away,
His kingdom doth extend ;
And ’till a Mightier One appears,
His conquests will not end.
Death is a stern and cruel foe,
To the thoughtless and the gay,
Who of the morrow never dream,
And live but for the day :
He calls the miser from his hoard,
The reveller from the feast,
And brings unto a common home,
The greatest and the least.
Death is a kind and gentle friend
To the lone and sad in heart,
Who from the busy scene of life
Are willing to depart.
The good man hath of him no fears,
The Christian dreads him not—
For in the quiet of his realm,
Their troubles are forgot.