 | The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey |  |
“IT IS NOT DEATH.”
It is not Death—it is not Death,
From which I shrink with coward fear;
It is, that I must leave behind
All I love here.
From which I shrink with coward fear;
It is, that I must leave behind
All I love here.
It is not Wealth—it is not Wealth,
That I am loath to leave behind;
Small store to me—yet all I crave—
Hath fate assigned.
That I am loath to leave behind;
Small store to me—yet all I crave—
Hath fate assigned.
It is not Fame—it is not Fame,
From which it will be pain to part;
Obscure my lot—but mine was still
A humble heart.
From which it will be pain to part;
Obscure my lot—but mine was still
A humble heart.
287
It is not Health—it is not Health,
That makes me fain to linger here;
For I have languished on in pain
This many a year.
That makes me fain to linger here;
For I have languished on in pain
This many a year.
It is not Hope—it is not Hope,
From which I cannot turn away;
Oh, earthly Hope hath cheated me
This many a day.
From which I cannot turn away;
Oh, earthly Hope hath cheated me
This many a day.
But there are Friends—but there are Friends,
To whom I could not say, “Farewell!”
Without a pang more hard to bear
Than tongue can tell.
To whom I could not say, “Farewell!”
Without a pang more hard to bear
Than tongue can tell.
But there's a thought—but there's a thought,
Will arm me with that pang to cope;
Thank God! we shall not part like those
Who have no hope.
Will arm me with that pang to cope;
Thank God! we shall not part like those
Who have no hope.
And some are gone—and some are gone—
Methinks they chide my long delay—
With whom, it seemed, my very life
Went half away.
Methinks they chide my long delay—
With whom, it seemed, my very life
Went half away.
But we shall meet—but we shall meet,
Where parting tears shall never flow;
And when I think thereon, almost
I long to go.
Where parting tears shall never flow;
And when I think thereon, almost
I long to go.
The Saviour wept—the Saviour wept
O'er him he loved—corrupting clay!—
But then he spake the word, and Death
Gave up his prey!—
O'er him he loved—corrupting clay!—
But then he spake the word, and Death
Gave up his prey!—
288
A little while—a little while,
And the dark Grave shall yield its trust;
Yea, render every atom up
Of human dust.
And the dark Grave shall yield its trust;
Yea, render every atom up
Of human dust.
What matters then—what matters then
Who earliest lays him down to rest?—
Nay, “to depart, and be with Christ,”
Is surely best.
Who earliest lays him down to rest?—
Nay, “to depart, and be with Christ,”
Is surely best.
| The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey | |