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259
THE SAINT'S REST.
Balmy Sleep hath o'er him spread
Her soft, downy pinion;
Gentle Peace his soul hath led
To her calm dominion.
He forgave and blessed his foes,
Ere he sunk to slumber;
And he now forgets his woes,
Whatsoe'er their number.
Her soft, downy pinion;
Gentle Peace his soul hath led
To her calm dominion.
He forgave and blessed his foes,
Ere he sunk to slumber;
And he now forgets his woes,
Whatsoe'er their number.
Sweetly thus the saint shall rest!
Not a hope forsaking,—
Not a pang to rend his breast,—
When life's cord is breaking.
He will drop this mortal guise,
Now so worn and hoary;
And, an angel, walk the skies,
Clothed with life and glory.
Not a hope forsaking,—
Not a pang to rend his breast,—
When life's cord is breaking.
He will drop this mortal guise,
Now so worn and hoary;
And, an angel, walk the skies,
Clothed with life and glory.
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