Classic Poem

Now let thy servant, Lord, depart in peace;
Give my aspiring soul a kind release.
What thro' the mystic glass of prophesy
The patriarchs distant saw, to me is nigh:
These languid eyes behold my Saviour's face,
These withered arms the heavenly babe imbrace.
Since I at last my blest Redeemer see,
No other sight below has charms for me.
Now close these aged eyes: for after this
Nothing's worth viewing but immortal bliss.