Weep not for me, when I am gone,
Nor spend thy faithful breath
In grieving o’er the spot or hour
Of all-enshrouding death;
Nor waste in idle praise thy love
On deeds of head or hand,
Which live within the living Book,
Or else are writ in sand;
But let it be thy best of prayers,
That I may find the grace
To reach the holy house of toll,
The frontier penance-place,—
To reach that golden palace bright,
Where souls elect abide,
Waiting their certain call to Heaven,
With Angels at their side;
Where hate, nor pride, nor fear torments
The transitory guest,
But in the willing agony
He plunges, and is blest.
And as the fainting patriarch gain’d
His needful halt mid-way,
And then refresh’d pursued his path,
Where up the mount it lay,
So pray, that, rescued from the storm
Of heaven’s eternal ire,
I may lie down, then rise again,
Safe, and yet saved by fire.
The Oratory. 1853.