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And cool the heart where Christ's own love might shine.
Why hold ye o'er my soul this restless power?
Why steal ye thus upon the midnight hour?
Why will ye on my secret haunts intrude,
And break the charm of much lov'd solitude?
For whether evening stars with splendour shine,
Or morning lead the dawn, or day decline,
Or meek retirement spread her soft control,
Or intellectual joys inspire the soul,
Or active zeal the ready powers command,
Or high devotion lift her sceptred hand,
Or sad contrition wake the secret tear,
Still, still, ye vain pursuits, ye strive to hover near.
Not always thus your burden shall I bear;
The silence of the tomb!—Ye come not there;
The pure abodes of bliss ye shall not stain,
The spirit freed and cleans'd ye shall not pain.
To this vain world is your short reign confin'd,
This empty bubble dancing on the wind;
A little while your boasted arts renew;
A little while—and then, a long and last adieu.
