Euthanasia

Methinks, when on the languid eye Life’s autumn scenes grow dim; When evening’s shadows veil the sky; And pleasure’s siren hymn Grows fainter on the tuneless ear, Like echoes from another sphere, Or dreams of seraphim— It were not sad to cast away This dull and cumbrous load of clay. It were not sad to feel the heart Grow passionless and cold; To feel those longings to depart That cheered the good of old; To clasp the faith which looks on high, Which fires the Christian’s dying eye, And makes the curtain-fold That falls upon his wasting breast, The door that leads to endless rest. It seems not lonely thus to lie On that triumphant bed, Till the pure spirit mounts on high By white-winged seraphs led: Where glories, earth may never know, O’er “many mansions” lingering glow, In peerless lustre shed. It were not lonely thus to soar Where sin and grief can sting no more. And though the way to such a goal Lies through the clouded tomb, If on the free, unfettered soul There rest no stains of gloom, How should its aspirations rise Far through the blue unpillared skies, Up to its final home, Beyond the journeyings of the sun, Where streams of living waters run!