Classic Poem

As scents the war-horse battle-fields afar,
So, Death, thy coming doth my soul perceive,
And, like a soldier at the trumpet's call,
Girds on its armor, ready to receive
The summons to a conflict, Death, with thee,
Secure of succor and of victory.

For angels wait to bathe my wounds, and place
To parching lips the chalice of relief;
While Gabriel whispers, “Thou shalt overcome;
The Master cometh, and the fight is brief.”
And hark! the symphonies of heaven tell
To dying Christians, “Fear not! all is well!”

And though I die, as early blossoms fall,
Ere in my life the ripened fruits appear,
Eternal ages will the bud expand,
Which found too soon the winter of Life's year.
I shall not die, but live, when Death for me
Shall cut the earth-cords, and exclaim, “Be free!”

Oh let me meet him, then, in God's own time,
Or soon, or late, as he, my Father, wills,
But meet him e'er with summer in my heart,
Green fields of trust, and sympathy's glad rills,
Then, though the din of conflict sharp may ring,
I'll die exclaiming, “Death hath lost its sting!”

Yet, if it please him, may his angel come
A messenger with sweet and winning smile,
To bear my spirit to a land of rest,
Where sin can ne'er my spotless robe defile!
Thy love, O Jesus! shall I there adore,—
Because thou livest, live forevermore.