XXXVII.
My rest will come ere long. O, when I sleep
My last long sleep beneath the cold damp sod,
Parents and friends! I pray ye not to weep
For one whose feet a thorny path have trod,
Then shelter’d in the bosom of her God!
I’ve had sore trial of each tender limb,
In such a rough and thorn-besprinkled road;
O, then, to weep for me would be a crime,
When I have safely fled beyond the bounds of time!