 | Nacoochee ; or, the beautiful star, with other Poems |  |
HYMN TO DEATH.
What man is he that liveth and shall not see death?—
Psalms, 89: 48.
Psalms, 89: 48.
Oh! would it not be joy to lie
Beneath some green arcade and die,
Where birds are singing loud;
And shun the deep unfathomed wave,
Nor go down to the silent grave
Beneath Death's awful cloud.
Beneath some green arcade and die,
Where birds are singing loud;
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Nor go down to the silent grave
Beneath Death's awful cloud.
And would it not be joy to rest
My worn out heart on mother's breast,
In some fair rosy bower;
And sport awhile beneath the shades,
And listen to the rude cascades,
And linger for an hour.
My worn out heart on mother's breast,
In some fair rosy bower;
And sport awhile beneath the shades,
And listen to the rude cascades,
And linger for an hour.
And would it not be bliss unknown
To lie down with my bosom's own,
On some unclouded night;
And drink His dear redeeming love
In ardour shed from heaven above,
When stars are shining bright.
To lie down with my bosom's own,
On some unclouded night;
And drink His dear redeeming love
In ardour shed from heaven above,
When stars are shining bright.
And would it not be joy to know
That God shall lift my soul from wo,
When these young eyes are dim;
And leave its cold, wan mansion here,
As winter leaves the willow sere,
And take it unto Him.
That God shall lift my soul from wo,
When these young eyes are dim;
And leave its cold, wan mansion here,
As winter leaves the willow sere,
And take it unto Him.
Then murmur not—nor weep—nor sigh—
For death itself shall one day die,
When God's blest Shiloh comes
To build up Salem's tottering towers,
And crush the Gentile's haughty powers,
And take us to our homes.
For death itself shall one day die,
When God's blest Shiloh comes
To build up Salem's tottering towers,
And crush the Gentile's haughty powers,
And take us to our homes.
| Nacoochee ; or, the beautiful star, with other Poems | |