WHEN blooming health and chearful days
    Far from my tents had flown,
When nature sunk by quick decays
    And ev'ry hope was gone.
When yawning dreadful in my sight
    Lay the dark dismal tomb,
To tear me from the chearful light
    And plunge me in its gloom:
My God and why withhold thy race?
    I cry'd in pangs of woe!
No more thy Heav'n - diffusing face
    Shall I behold below.
As Cranes that chant in clouds above,
    At times I loud complain;
And then like the lone mourning dove
    In secret sigh my pain.
Like the Arabians shifted tent,
    Departed is mine age;
And as the weavers shuttle spent,
    I drop from off the stage
But what am I, poor breathing clay,
    That dare to murmur still?
Asham'd, resigned, I obey
    Nor more dispute his will.
By grief and pain, distress and death,
    The soul is hush'd to peace:
That when is past th' expiring breath
    It may respire in bliss.
R.