And I have dropped this earthly frame, this frail disgusting clay,
And, in a beauteous spirit-form, have soared on wings away;
I have bathed my angel-pinions in the floods of glory bright,
Which circle, with their brilliant waves, the throne of living light.
I have joined the swelling chorus of the holy glittering bands
Who ever stand around that throne, with cymbals in their hands:
But the dream would soon be broken by the voices of the morn,
And the sunbeams send me forth again, the theme of jest and song.
I care not for their mockery now—the thought disturbs me not,
That, in this little span of life, contempt should be my lot;
But I would gladly welcome here some slight reprieve from pain,
And I'd murmur of my back no more, if it might not ache again.
Full well I know this ne'er can be, till I with peace am blest,
Where the heavy-laden sweetly sleep, and the weary are at rest;
For the body shall commingle with its kindred native dust,
And the soul return for evermore to the "Holy One and Just."
Letty.
THIS WORLD IS NOT OUR HOME.
How difficult it is for the wealthy and proud to realize that they must die, and mingle with the common earth! Though a towering monument may mark the spot where their lifeless remains repose, their heads will lie as low as that of the poorest peasant. All their untold gold cannot reprieve them for one short day.