The hour of my departure's come;
I hear the voice that calls me home:
At last, O Lord! let trouble cease,
And let Thy servant die in peace.

The race appointed I have run;
The combat's o'er, the prize is won;
And now my witness is on high,
And now my record's in the sky.

Not in mine innocence I trust;
I bow before Thee in the dust;
And through my Saviour's blood alone
I look for mercy at thy throne.

I leave the world without a tear,
Save for the friends I held so dear;
To heal their sorrows, Lord, descend,

Where high the heavenly temple stands,
The house of God not made with hands,
A great High Priest our Nature wears,
The Patron of mankind appears.

He who for men in mercy stood,
And pour'd on earth His precious blood,
Pursues in Heaven His plan of Grace,
The Guardian God of human race.

Tho' now ascended up on high,
He bends on earth a brother's eye,
Partaker of the human name,
He knows the frailty of our frame.

Our fellow-sufferer yet retains
A fellow-feeling of our pains;
And still remembers in the skies

Take comfort, Christians, when your friends
In Jesus fall asleep;
Their better being never ends;
Why then dejected weep?

Why inconsolable, as those
To whom no hope is given?
Death is the messenger of peace,
And calls the soul to heaven.

As Jesus died, and rose again
Victorious from the dead;
So His disciples rise, and reign
With their triumphant Head.

The time draws nigh, when from the clouds
Christ shall with shouts descend,
And the last trumpet's awful voice
The heav'ns and earth shall rend.

When Jesus, by the Virgin brought,
So runs the law of Heaven,
Was offer'd holy to the Lord,
And at the altar given;

Simeon the Just and the Devout,
Who frequent in the fane
Had for the Saviour waited long,
But waited still in vain;

Came Heaven-directed at the hour
When Mary held her son;
He stretched forth his aged arms,
While tears of gladness run:

With holy joy upon his face
The good old father smiled,
While fondly in his wither'd arms
He clasp'd the promis'd child.

Thus speaks the heathen: How shall man
The Power Supreme adore!
With what accepted off'rings come
His mercy to implore?

Shall clouds of incense to the skies
With grateful odour speed?
Or victims from a thousand hills
Upon the altar bleed?

Does justice nobler blood demand
To save the sinner's life?
Shall, trembling, in his offspring's side
The father plunge the knife?

No: God rejects the bloody rites
Which blindfold zeal began;
His oracles of truth proclaim
The message brought to man.

O happy is the man who hears
Instruction's warning voice,
And who celestial Wisdom makes
His early, only choice.

For she has treasures greater far
Than East or West unfold,
And her reward is more secure
Than is the gain of gold.

In her right hand she holds to view
A length of happy years;
And in her left, the prize of Fame
And Honour bright appears.

She guides the young, with innocence,
In Pleasure's path to tread,
A crown of glory she bestows
Upon the hoary head.

According as her labours rise,

In streets, and op'nings of the gates,
Where pours the busy crowd,
Thus heav'nly Wisdom lifts her voice,
And cries to men aloud:

How long, ye scorners of the truth,
Scornful will ye remain?
How long shall fools their folly love,
And hear my words in vain?

O turn, at last, at my reproof!
And, in that happy hour,
His bless'd effusions on your heart
My Spirit down shall pour.

But since so long, with earnest voice,
To you in vain I call,
Since all my counsels and reproofs
Thus ineffectual fall;

Who can resist th' Almighty arm
That made the starry sky?
Or who elude the certain glance
Of God's all-seeing eye?

From Him no cov'ring vails our crimes;
Hell opens to His sight;
And all Destruction's secret snares
Lie full disclosed in light.

Firm on the boundless void of space
He poised the steady pole,
And in the circle of His clouds
Bade secret waters roll.

While nature's universal frame
Its Maker's power reveals,
His throne, remote from mortal eyes,
An awful cloud conceals.

Few are thy days and full of woe,
O man of woman born!
Thy doom is written, dust thou art,
And shalt to dust return.

Determin'd are the days that fly
Successive o'er thy head;
The number'd hour is on the wing,
That lays thee with the dead.

Alas! the little day of life
Is shorter than a span;
Yet black with thousand hidden ills
To miserable man.

Gay is thy morning, flattering Hope
Thy sprightly step attends;
But soon the tempest howls behind,
And the dark night descends.

Creator, of a smile, a sigh—
You gave us Madame Butterfly.