"Then whose shall those things be that thou hast provided?"

Thou hast a fair domain,Most proud and princely halls,And richly thro' the crystal pane,Thro' bowering branches fresh with rain,The golden sunbeam falls,Thick vine-leaves o'er thy grotto meetIn soft and fragrant gloom,But who shall fill that favorite seatWhen thou art in thy tomb?

The wealth of every ageThou hast center'd here,The ancient tome, the classic page,The wit, the poet, and the sage,All at thy nod appear;But studious head and anxious breastTo palsied Death must yield;Whose eye shall on those volumes restWhen thine in dust is seal'd?

Thou lov'st the burnish'd gold,The silver from the mine,The diamond glittering bright and cold,And hoards, perchance, of gems untold,Do in thy coffers shine;But when affection's eye shall weepIts few, brief tears for thee,When thou in thy dark grave dost sleepWhose shall these treasures be?

Thy children's? Bid some few short yearsFulfill their hasting claims,Where are they? Ask the mourner's tears,A stanger in their place appears,Forgotten are their names,Their memory like the snow shall meltFrom the green hillock's head,And where they once in plenty dwelt,Their offspring ask for bread.

But if thy love to God sincereBy love to Man be shown,By pity's deed, contrition's tear,Faith in a Saviour's merits dear,Distrustful of thine own;If thou hast in thy casket laidSuch treasures rich and free,Beyond dread Death's oblivious shade,Look! they shall go with thee.