IMPLORA PACE.

One hundred years! a long, long scroll

Of dust to dust, and woe,

How soon my passing knell will toll!

Is Death a friend or foe?

My days are often sad — and vain

Is much that tempts me to remain

— And yet I'm loth to go.

Oh, must I tread yon sunless shore —

Go hence, and then be seen no more?

I love to think that those I loved

May gather round the bier

Of him, who, whilst he erring proved,

Still held them more than dear.

My friends wax fewer day by day,

Yes, one by one, they drop away,

And if I shed no tear,

Dear parted Shades, whilst life endures,

This poor heart yearns for love — and yours!

Will some who knew me, when I die,

Shed tears behind the hearse?

Will any one survivor cry,

“I could have spared a worse —

We never spoke: we never met:

I never heard his voice — and yet

I loved him for his verse?”

Such love would make the flowers wave

In rapture on their poet's grave.

One hundred years! They soon will leak

Away — and leave behind

A stone mossgrown, that none will seek,

And none would care to find.

Then I shall sleep, and find release

In perfect rest — the perfect peace

For which my soul has pined;

Although the grave is dark and deep

I know the Shepherd loves his sheep.