Classic Poem

Lie down, frail body, here,
Earth has no fairer bed,
No gentler pillow to afford, —
Come, rest thy home-sick head.

Lie down, " vile body, " here,
This mould is smoothly strown,
No couch of flowers more softly spread, —
Come, make this grave thine own.

Lie down with all thy aches,
There is no aching here;
How soon shall all thy life-long ills
For ever disappear.

Thro' these well-guarded gates
No foe can entrance gain;
No sickness wastes, nor once intrudes
The memory of pain.

The tossings of the night,
The frettings of the day,
All end, and like a cloud of dawn,
Melt from thy skies away.

Foot-sore and worn thou art,
Breathless with toil and fight,
How welcome now the long-sought sleep
Of this all-tranquil night.

Brief night and quiet couch
In some star-lighted room,
Watched but by one beloved eye,
Whose light dispels all gloom; —

A sky without a cloud,
A sea without a wave, —
These are but shadows of thy rest
In this thy peaceful grave.

Rest for the toiling hand,
Rest for the thought-worn brow,
Rest for the weary way-sore feet,
Rest from all labor now.

Rest for the fevered brain,
Rest for the throbbing eye;
Thro' these parched lips of thine no more,
Shall pass the moan or sigh.

Soon shall the trump of God
Give out the welcome sound,
That shakes thy silent chamber-walls
And breaks the turf-sealed ground.

Ye dwellers in the dust,
Awake, come forth and sing;
Sharp has your frost of winter been,
But bright shall be your spring.

'Twas sown in weakness here;
'Twill then be raised in power.
That which was sown an earthly seed,
Shall rise a heavenly flower.