A THOUGHT ON DEATH.
267
When faith is firm, and conscience clear,
And words of peace the spirit cheer,
And visioned glories half appear,—
’Tis joy, 'tis triumph then to die.
When trembling limbs refuse their weight,
And films, slow gathering, dim the sight,
And clouds obscure the mental light,—
’Tis nature's precious boon to die.
