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, not pride, not 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.