Rose o'er its stricken tent with outspread wing
Of seraph rapture: for to reach a home
Where is no restless hope, no vain desire,
No film o'er faith's bright eye, for love no blight,
Is glorious gain: and lo! that home is thine.
"DEPART, CHRISTIAN SOUL."
Depart, depart! The silver cord is breaking,
The sun-ray fades before thy darken'd sight,
The subtle essence from the clod is taking
Mid groans and pangs its everlasting flight;
Lingerest thou fearful? Christ the grave hath blest,
He, in that lowly couch did deign to take his rest.
Depart! thy sojourn here hath been in sorrow,
Tears were thy meat along thy thorn-clad path,
The hope of eve was but a clouded morrow,
And sin appall'd thee with thy Maker's wrath,
Earth gave her lessons in a tempest-voice
Thy discipline is ended. Chasten'd one, rejoice!
Thou wert a stranger here, and all thy trouble
To bind a wreath upon the brow of pain,
To build a bower upon the watery bubble
Or strike an anchor 'neath its depths, was vain;
Depart! Depart! All tears are wiped away,
Thy seraph-marshall'd road is toward the realm of day.
