MRS. SIGOURNEY'S POEMS.
285
But he whose only gold
Is in the conscience stor'd
Is richer at the hour of death
Than with the miser's hoard.
When the short day of life
With all its work is done,
The faithful servant of the cross
Doth hail the setting sun,
But they who waste their breath,
Dread the accusing tomb,
And the time-killer flies from death
As from a murderer's doom.
So give us, Lord, to find
When earth shall pass away,
That Sabbath-evening of the mind
Which crowns a well-spent day,
That entering to thy rest,
Where toils and cares are o'er,
We, with the myriads of the blest,
May praise Thee, evermore.
