Chamber of the Dying

CHAMBER OF THE DYING

By Grace Aguilar

(MAY 1843)

'Tis holy, when the morning peeps
Softly through shadowy night,
When Nature gems of beauty weeps,
And the bright world so gently sleeps,
Hushed in its pomp and might.

'Tis holy, in that hour of eve,
When twilight's robe is spread,
When thought may solemn visions weave,
And care and pain and sorrow leave,
Till all but peace hath fled.

'Tis holy, when the glistening rays
Of many a silent star
Gleam on that sad and yearning gaze,
That up to Heaven its prayer would raise,
And send its dream afar.

'Tis holy, when the choral song
Fills with deep tones the air,
When, awed and hushed, the gathering throng,
Still, in the spirit's depth prolong,
The mighty voice of prayer.

'Tis holy, when loud thunders roar,
And lightning flashes round,
When ocean breaks upon the shore,
And heavy clouds the heavens rush o'er,
And winds send forth deep sound.

But holier e'en than these, the shrine,
Where low the loved is lying,
Where glimmerings of a love divine,
Through pain and sorrow softly shine,
The Chamber of the Dying.

There:--God is there. He calls His own,
In voice so gently mild,
A few brief hours, and to His throne,
Where saints and angels dwell alone,
He calls His favour'd child.

'Tis on an angel that we gaze,
A resident of heaven,
Shrouded awhile, in misty haze,
As morning veils her glowing rays,
Ere night afar is driven.

'Tis holy!--holy thus to rest,
Beside a spirit flying,
Though anguish fills the watchers' breast,
Yet e'en to them,--'tis holiest,
The Chamber of the Dying!

Back