Volume 33 — DEATH:—AN INVOCATION.

Thou art no king of terrors—sweet Death! But a maiden young and fair; Thine eyes are bright as the spring starlight, And golden is thy hair; While the smile that flickers thy lips upon Has a light beyond compare. Come then, Death, from the dark-brown shades Where thou hast lingered long; Come to the haunts where sins abound And troubles thickly throng, And lay thy bridal kiss on the lips Of a child of sorrow and song. For I can gaze with a rapture deep Upon thy lovely face; Many a smile I find therein, Where another a frown would trace— As a lover would clasp his new-made bride I will take thee to my embrace. Come, oh, come! I long for thy look; I weary to win thy kiss— Bear me away from a world of wo To a world of quiet bliss— For in that I may kneel to God alone, Which I may not do in this. For woman and wealth they woo pursuit, And a winning voice has fame; Men labor for love and work for wealth And struggle to gain a name; Yet find but fickleness, need and scorn, If not the brand of shame. Then carry me hence, sweet Death—my Death! Must I woo thee still in vain? Come at the morn or come at the eve, Or come in the sun or rain; But come—oh, come! for the loss of life To me is the chiefest gain.