[From Poems; by Rev Robert Brown, 1826]


WHAT though amid the landscape we discern
Nor marble sepulchre nor moss-clad cairn ;
Yet may we not, from all we gaze on, learn
That man is born to die ?

Does not yon restless deep, whene'er its wave,
Retreating, ceases the lone strand to lave,
Proclaim that man is hastening to the grave,
That man is born to die

Do we not learn this from yon orb of day ?
Surely, whene'er it shrouds its fading ray
Behind those western hills, it seems to say,
That man is born to die.

We learn from evening's dim and lonely hour,
From every withering herb and fading flower,
From every falling leaf and naked bower,
That man is born to die.

We learn this from the moon's decreasing flame;
The waning planet warns us of the same;
All things beneath, around, above, proclaim
That man is born to die.

How strange, with such memorials of their lot,
That death by mortals e'er should be forgot,
That we, thus warned, should yet remember not
That man is born to die!

O Thou who hast ordained the awful doom,
M ake me remember the approaching tomb ;
And may it prove to me no source of gloom,
That man is born to die.

May I for my removal so prepare,
That death to paradise my soul may bear,
And .I rejoice, with countless myriads there,
That man is born to die.

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