When sickness shakes the languid frame, Each dazzling pleasure flies; Phantoms of bliss no more obscure Our long deluded eyes. Then the tremendous arm of death Its hated scepter shows; And nature faints beneath the weight Of complicated woes. The tottering frame of mortal life Shall crumble into dust, Nature shall faint—but learn, my soul On nature’s God to trust. The man, whose pious heart is fixed On his all gracious God, In every frown may comfort find, And kiss the chastening rod. Nor him shall death itself alarm; On Heav’n his soul relies; With joy he views his maker’s love, And with composure dies.