When as poor Lazarus is Dei sacrarium, the temple of God, lives and dies in true devotion, hath no more attendants, but his own innocency, the heaven a tomb, desires to be dissolved, buried in his mother's lap, and hath a company of Angels ready to convey his soul into Abraham's bosom, he leaves an everlasting and a sweet memory behind him.

Where 'er she goes her presence thrills, And in her youthfulness there shines The everlasting of our hills, The evergreenness of our pines.