When life as opening buds is sweet, And golden hopes the fancy greet, And Youth prepares his joys to meet,- Alas! how hard it is to die! When just is seized some valued prize, And duties press, and tender ties Forbid the soul from earth to rise,- How awful then it is to die!
When, one by one, those ties are torn, And friend from friend is snatched forlorn, And man is left alone to mourn,- Ah then, how easy 'tis to die! When faith is firm, and conscience clear, And words of peace the spirit cheer, And visioned glories half appear,- 'Tis joy, 'tis triumph then to die.
When trembling limbs refuse their weight, And films, slow gathering, dim the sight, And clouds obscure the mental light,- 'Tis nature's precious boon to die. (с) A. L. Barbauld