Let years crowd on, and age bow down
My body to the earth which gave,
As yon grey, worn out, crumbling stone
Dips o’er the grave!
What, though for in no music thrill,
Nor mirth delight, nor beauty move;
Though the heart stiffen and wax still,
And make no love;
Still, deep and bright, like river gold,
Imbedded here thy love shall lie⁠—
Sun-grains, that with the sands are rolled,
Of memory.
Shall that soul never burst the tomb,
Draped in long robes of living light?
Or, worm-like, alway eat the gloom
And dust of night?

Oh! life in sporting on earth lies,
Till death share up the rich green sod;
Bat if the spirit lives or dies,
Why try ye God?
What should it never smile nor sigh
From cheeks or lips but those beneath?
Doth love not weigh the world’s vast lie?
Doth life not death?

I ask why man should suffer death?

Answer⁠—what right to life hath he?
God gives and takes away your breath:
What more have ye?
Breath is your life, and life your soul;
Ye have it warm from His kind hands:
Then yield it back to the great Whole
When He demands.
Why, deathling, wilt thou long for Heaven?
Why seek a bright but blinding way?
Go, thank thy God that He hath given
Night upon day:
Go, thank thy God that thou hast lived,
And ask no more: ’tis all He gave:
’Tis all there needs to be believed⁠—
God and the grave.

For Thee, God, will I save my heart;
For Thee my nature’s honour keep;
Then, soul and body, all or part⁠—
Rest, wake, or sleep!