I have heard, o’er the grave of her only son, 
The widow her wailings pour; 
Then l’ve seen her torn to her desolate home, 
Now reft both of fence and flower. 
Mortal — thou know’st not how passing short 
Thy number’d days may be, 
Oh! then so live that, when comes the last, 
Death may have no sting for thee.’ 
