ALEXANDER POPE

Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays ; Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart; Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, The Muse forgot, and thou beloved no more !

��442. The T)ymg Christian to his Soul

WITAL spark of heav'nly flame !

• Quit, O quit this mortal frame:

Trembling, hoping, ling' ring, flying, O the pain, the bliss of dying !

Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,

And let me languish into life.

Hark ! they whisper ; angels say,

Sister Spirit, come away !

What is this absorbs me quite?

Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirits, draws my breath ? Tell me, my soul, can this be death ?

The world recedes ; it disappears ! Heav'n opens on my eyes ! my ears

With sounds seraphic ring! Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly ! O Grave ! where is thy victory ?

O Death ! where is thy sting ?

��SOT

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