Classic Poem

The wound doth burn; the pale lips quiv'ring be;
By this faint beating of my heart, too well
That life's last moments hover near, I tell:
God! as thou wilt; I gave myself to thee.

What golden pictures did my fancy see!
The glorious vision turns to funeral knell;
But, courage! what my heart has loved so well
Must surely, yonder, ever dwell with me.

And—that which I, as sacred, here have claimed—
Impatient sought, with youthful zeal inflamed—
Which, though 'twere freedom, though 'twere love,
I named—

I see before me stand a seraph bright!
And, as my senses slowly wing their flight,
A breath shall waft me to the morn-tinged height.