Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/My Choice

My Choice.

I ask not wealth;—the glittering toy I never may command;Let others own it is their joy, And wield the gilded wand.

I ask not fame;—the laurelled wreath My brow would never wear;It cannot shield the heart from grief, Or banish even care.

I ask not beauty;—'tis a gem As fleeting as 'tis bright;Even one rough gale may bear it hence, And saddening is its flight.

Such fading flowers of earthly ground Why should I e'er possess?—In them no lasting bliss is found, No solid happiness.

The soul's calm sunshine I would know; Be mine Religion's trust;Be mine its precious truth to know;— All else is sordid dust.

And Hope and Faith, as angels bright, Be mine attendants too,Bear me above earth's sinful might— Present me heaven's bright view.

For Death, ere long, with subtle art, Will claim his kindred dust;How peaceful, then, will be my heart! How sacred be its trust!

Then I can feel life's troubled road Has not been passed in vain;And, calmly trusting in my God, Yield back my breath again.