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This is the hour when Fancy wakes,
The spell bound joys, that could not last;
This is the hour that mem'ry breathes,
A sigh to pleasures past.

The past week has fled, and the evening is come,
That precedes the sabbatical rest;
Like the days of the years now departed and gone,
Like the that descends to the west.

Like a voice from the grave bidding mortals beware,
Of the waste of the hours as they fly.
Time silently us to watch and prepare,
For the moment that calls us to die.

Each year, and each month, and each day like - a friend,
In the language of wisdom convey,
Some type of the shadow of death, that attend,
On the steps of the aged and gay.

Oh! who then can think of the week that is gone,
That precedes the sabbatical rest,
And not call to mind the repose of the tomb,
As he sees the sun set in the west.