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Thy hands my prompted deeds have done,
Thy feet upon mine errands run,—
Yes, thou hast mark'd my bidding well,
Faithful and true! farewell, farewell.
—Go to thy rest. A quiet bed
Meek mother Earth with flowers shall spread,
Where I no more thy sleep may break
With fever'd dream, nor rudely wake
Thy wearied eye.
                            Oh quit thy hold,
For thou art faint, and chill, and cold,
And long thy gasp and groan of pain
Have bound me pitying in thy chain,
Tho angels urge me hence to soar,
Where I shall share thine ills no more.
—Yet we shall meet. To soothe thy pain,
Remember,—we shall meet again.
Quell with this hope, the victor's sting,
And keep it as a signet-ring,
When the dire worm shall pierce thy breast,
And nought but ashes mark thy rest,
When stars shall fall, and skies grow dark,
And proud suns quench their glow-worm spark,
Keep thou that hope, to light thy gloom,
Till the last trumpet rends the tomb.
—Then shalt thou glorious rise, and fair,
Nor spot, nor stain, nor wrinkle bear,
And I, with hovering wing elate,
The bursting of thy bonds shall wait,
And breathe the welcome of the sky,—
"No more to part, no more to die,
Co-heir of Immortality."