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; {304}

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

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Newman Reader — Works of John Henry Newman
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