Page:Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse.pdf/219

 For while thou slumberest on thy couch of rest, The hand of death within thy sphere has prest; And one, whose piercing glance thou us'd to meet, Whose step was active, and whose voice was sweet, Has tasted pain, has deeply drank of woe, Has struggled strongly with the frowning foe, Has passed the portal arch, whose massy door, Once turning on its hinge, shall turn no more; Has trod the darkly silent vale, and gone A trembling stranger, to a world unknown.

Nought that she lov'd on earth could bribe her stay, No friend could go to cheer her on her way; No wealth, to purchase welcome could she bear, Nor even her worth, could buy a ransom there; No pompous titles sounded as she came, No earthly honours swell'd the blast of fame: What then, alas! has the lone stranger brought? Nought but the spotless robe, by her Redeemer wrought.