Classic Poem

OE ARTH , my mother! not upon thy breast
Would I my heavy head in death recline,
Would I lay down these weary limbs of mine
When the great Voice shall call me into rest.
Too well have I obeyed thy gay behest,
ToOeagerly have worshipped at thy shrine;
The better part of all my life was thine,
I used thee as a lover not a guest.
I would not make with thee my dying bed,
Low, low beneath thy lowest let me be;
Far from thy living, farther from thy dead,
From every fetter of remembrance free,
Deep in some ocean cave, and overhead
The ceaseless sounding of thy waves, O Sea!