 | Naked Genius |  |
89
THE ANGEL OF DEATH AT THE BED OF A DYING SAINT.
Wilt thou from gasping swerve,
Or dare my fatal torch deny;
Does not thy soul my smile deserve,
Which bids its fabric die.
Or dare my fatal torch deny;
Does not thy soul my smile deserve,
Which bids its fabric die.
Hast thou not lived to prove,
The aid I thee have given,
With beams of providential love,
Which off thy love has driven.
The aid I thee have given,
With beams of providential love,
Which off thy love has driven.
Have I not faithful dealt
With thee, and heard thy plaint on earth:
And for thy deep distress felt,
And turned thy grief to mirth.
With thee, and heard thy plaint on earth:
And for thy deep distress felt,
And turned thy grief to mirth.
Free let those schackles fall
Which keep thee from thy native sky,
Which binds thee to this loathsome ball,
And bids thee grieve to die!
Which keep thee from thy native sky,
Which binds thee to this loathsome ball,
And bids thee grieve to die!
| Naked Genius | |