Life is at best a thorny path,
Then let us pluck the flowers,
And cease to weep
For those who sleep,
Embalm'd in Mem'ry's bowers.
Their days though few, yet happier far,
Than those who loiter here;
They sweetly rest
On nature's breast,
Escap'd each grief and fear.
The storm which shakes the lofty oak
Will rend the lily too—
Sport of the skies,
Low, low it lies,
Where once its beauty grew.
We ne'er shall see them droop and fade,
Earth's youngest, loveliest flowers,—
Then cease to weep
For those who sleep,
Embalm'd in Mem'ry's bowers.