Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Death
DEATH.
"Death is the night of that day which is given us to work in. Happy the soul which Death finds rich, not in gold, furniture, learning, reputation, or barren purposes and desires, but in good works."
Bishop Wilson's Sacra Privata.
Chill'd by the piercing blast,
Or faint with vertic heat,
The wearied laborer hails the night,
And finds its slumber sweet,
While they whom idle years
Of luxury impair,
Toss on the restless couch, or meet
The dream of terror there.
The rich man moves in pomp,
To him the world is dear,
And every treasure twists a tie
To bind him stronger here,
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.