168

 168. The Golden Prison  WEEP not for me, when I am gone,  Nor spend thy faithful breath In grieving o'er the spot or hour  Of all-enshrouding death;  Nor waste in idle praise thy love  On deeds of head or hand, Which live within the living Book,  Or else are writ in sand;  But let it be thy best of prayers,  That I may find the grace To reach the holy house of toll,  The frontier penance-place,  To reach that golden palace bright,  Where souls elect abide, Waiting their certain call to Heaven,  With Angels at their side;  Where hate, nor pride, nor fear torments  The transitory guest, But in the willing agony  He plunges, and is blest.  And as the fainting patriarch gain'd  His needful halt mid-way, And then refresh'd pursued his path,  Where up the mount it lay,  So pray, that, rescued from the storm  Of heaven's eternal ire, I may lie down, then rise again,  Safe, and yet saved by fire.  The Oratory .  1853.