1 My thoughts, that often mount the skies,
Go, search the world beneath,
Where nature all in ruin lies,
And owns her sovereign, Death.

2 The tyrant, how he triumphs here!
His trophies spread around!
And heaps of dust and bones appear
Thro’ all the hollow ground.

3 These skulls, what ghastly figures now!
How loathsome to the eyes!
These are the heads we lately knew,
So beauteous and so wise.

4 But where the souls, those deathless things
That left this dying clay?
My thoughts, now stretch out all your wings,
And trace eternity.

5 O that unfathomable sea!
Those deeps without a shore!
Where living waters gently play,
Or fiery billows roar.

6 Thus must we leave the banks of life,
And try this doubtful sea;
Vain are our groans, and dying strife
To gain a moment’s stay.

7 There we shall swim in heav’nly bliss,
Or sink in flaming waves,
While pale our thoughtless carcass lies,
Amongst the silent graves.

8 Some hearty friend shall drop his tear
On our dry bones, and say,
"These once were strong, as mine appear,
And mine must be as they."

9 Thus shall our moldering members teach
What now our senses learn:
For dust and ashes loudest preach
Man’s infinite concern.