On to their dark and silent grave!” Alas!
For man:—an exile upon earth he stays,
Weary, and wandering through benighted ways;
To-day in strength, to-morrow like the grass
That withers at his feet. Lift up thy head,
Poor pilgrim, toiling in this vale of tears;
That book declares whose blood for thee was shed,
Who died to give thee life; and though thy years
Pass like a shade, pointing to thy death-bed,
Out of the deep thy cry an angel hears,