For ever with the Lord!
'For ever with the Lord!'
Amen, so let it be;
Life from the dead is in that word,
'Tis immortality.
Here in the body pent,
Absent from Him I roam;
Yet nightly pitch my moving tent
A day's march nearer home.
My father's house on high,
Home of my soul, how near;
At times to faith's foreseeing eye,
Thy golden gates appear!
In darkness as in light
Hidden alike from view,
I sleep, I wake within his sight
Who looks existence through.
From the dim hour of birth,
Through every changing state
Of mortal pilgrimage on earth,
Till its appointed date;
All that I am, have been,
All that I yet may be,
He sees at once, as He hath seen,
And shall for ever see.
Be Thou at my right hand,
Then can I never fail;
Uphold Thou me, and I shall stand,
Fight, and I must prevail.
poem by James Montgomery
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Hymn 110
Death and immediate glory.
2 Cor. 5:1,5-8.
There is a house not made with hands,
Eternal and on high;
And here my spirit waiting stands,
Till God shall bid it fly.
Shortly this prison of my clay
Must be dissolved and fall;
Then, O my soul! with joy obey
Thy heav'nly Father's call.
'Tis he, by his almighty grace,
That forms thee fit for heav'n;
And, as an earnest of the place,
Has his own Spirit giv'n.
We walk by faith of joys to come,
Faith lives upon his word;
But while the body is our home,
We're absent from the Lord.
'Tis pleasant to believe thy grace,
But we had rather see;
We would be absent from the flesh,
And present, Lord, with thee.
poem by Isaac Watts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Be Thou My Vision
Be thou my vision, oh lord of my heart
Nought be all else to me, save that thy art
Thou my best thought in the day and the night
Waking or sleeping, thou presence my light
Be thou my wisdom, be thou my true word
I ever with thee and thou with me lord
Thou my great father and I thy true son
Thou in me dwelling and I with thee one
Be thou my breastplate, my sword for the fight
Be thou my armour and be thou my might
Thou my soul shelter, and thy my high tower
Raise thou me heavenwards, oh power of my power
Riches I need not, nor mans empty praise
Thou mine inheritance through all of my days
Thou and thou only though first in my heart
High king of heaven my treasure thou art
Oh high king of heaven, when battle is done
Grant heavens joy to me, bright heaven sun
Christ of my own heart, whatever befall
Still be my vision, though ruler of all
Da, da, da, da, da, etc.
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The Conqueror's Sleep
Sleep 'midst thy banners furl'd!
Yes! thou art there, upon thy buckler lying,
With the soft wind unfelt around thee sighing,
Thou chief of hosts, whose trumpet shakes the world!
Sleep while the babe sleeps on its mother's breast-
-Oh! strong is night-for thou too art at rest!
Stillness hath smooth'd thy brow,
And now might love keep timid vigils by thee,
Now might the foe with stealthy foot draw nigh thee,
Alike unconscious and defenceless thou!
Tread lightly, watchers!-now the field is won,
Break not the rest of nature's weary son!
Perchance some lovely dream
Back from the stormy fight thy soul is bearing,
To the green places of thy boyish daring,
And all the windings of thy native stream;
-Why, this were joy!-upon the tented plain,
Dream on, thou Conqueror!-be a child again!
But thou wilt wake at morn,
With thy strong passions to the conflict leaping,
And thy dark troubled thoughts, all earth o'ersweeping,
-So wilt thou rise, oh! thou of woman born!
And put thy terrors on, till none may dare
Look upon thee-the tired one, slumbering there!
Why, so the peasant sleeps
Beneath his vine!-and man must kneel before thee,
And for his birthright vainly still implore thee!
Shalt thou be stay'd because thy brother weeps?
-Wake! and forget that 'midst a dreaming world,
Thou hast lain thus, with all thy banners furl'd!
Forget that thou, ev'n thou,
Hast feebly shiver'd when the wind pass'd o'er thee,
And sunk to rest upon the earth which bore thee,
And felt the night-dew chill thy fever'd brow!
Wake with the trumpet, with the spear press on!
-Yet shall the dust take home its mortal son.
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Psalm 139
O Lord in me there lieth nought
But to thy search revealed lies;
For when I sit
Thou markest it:
Nor less thou notest when I rise:
Yea, closest closet of my thought
Hath open windows to thine eyes.
Thou walkest with me when I walk;
When to my bed for rest I go,
I find thee there,
And everywhere,
Not youngest thought in me doth grow,
No, not one word I cast to talk
But, yet unuttered, thou dost know.
If forth I march, thou goest before;
If back I turn, thou com'st behind;
So forth nor back
Thy guard I lack;
Nay, on me too thy hand I find.
Well I thy wisdom may adore,
But never reach with earthly mind.
To shun thy notice, leave thine eye,
O whither might I take my way?
To starry sphere?
Thy throne is there:
To dead men's undelightsome stay?
There is thy walk, and there to lie
Unknown, in vain should I assay.
O sun, whom light nor flight can match!
Suppose thy lightful flightful wings
Thou lend to me,
And I could flee
As far as thee the evening brings:
Even led to west he would me catch
Nor should I lurk with western things.
Do thou thy best, O secret night!
In sable veil to cover me:
Thy sable veil
Shall vainly fail:
With day unmasked my night shall be,
For night is day, and darkness light,
O Father of all lights, to thee.
poem by Philip Sidney
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Why dost thou Shade thy Lovely Face?
1 Why dost thou shade thy lovely face? Oh, why
2 Does that eclipsing hand so long deny
3 The sunshine of thy soul-enliv'ning eye?
4 Without that light, what light remains in me?
5 Thou art my life, my way, my light; in thee
6 I live, I move, and by thy beams I see.
7 Thou art mv life; if thou but turn away
8 My life's a thousand deaths: thou art my way;
9 Without thee, Lord, I travel not, but stray.
10 My light thou art; without thy glorious sight
11 Mine eyes are darken'd with perpetual night.
12 My God, thou art my way, my life, my light.
13 Thou art my way; I wander if thou fly:
14 Thou art my light; if hid, how blind am I!
15 Thou art my life; if thou withdraw, I die.
16 Mine eyes are blind and dark, I cannot see;
17 To whom or whither should my darkness flee,
18 But to the light? and who's that light but thee?
19 My path is lost, my wand'ring steps do stray;
20 I cannot safely go, nor safely stay;
21 Whom should I seek but thee, my path, my way?
22 Oh, I am dead: to whom shall I, poor I,
23 Repair? to whom shall my sad ashes fly,
24 But life? and where is life but in thine eye?
25 And yet thou turn'st away thy face, and fly'st me;
26 And yet I sue for grace, and thou deny'st me;
27 Speak, art thou angry, Lord, or only try'st me?
28 Unscreen those heavenly lamps, or tell me why
29 Thou shad'st thy face; perhaps thou think'st no eye
30 Can view those flames, and not drop down and die.
31 If that be all, shine forth, and draw thee nigher;
32 Let me behold and die, for my desire
33 Is ph{oe}nix-like to perish in that fire.
34 Death-conquer'd Laz'rus was redeem'd by thee;
35 If I am dead, Lord, set death's prisoner free;
36 Am I more spent, or stink I worse than he?
37 If my puff'd life be out, give leave to tine
38 My shameless snuff at that bright lamp of thine;
39 Oh, what's thy light the less for lighting mine?
40 If I have lost my path, great Shepherd, say,
41 Shall I still wander in a doubtful way?
42 Lord, shall a lamb of Israel's sheep-fold stray?
43 Thou art the pilgrim's path, the blind man's eye,
44 The dead man's life; on thee my hopes rely;
45 If thou remove, I err, I grope, I die.
46 Disclose thy sunbeams; close thy wings, and stay;
47 See, see how I am blind, and dead, and stray,
48 O thou, that art my light, my life, my way.
poem by Francis Quarles
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Clay
Thou shalt do what Thou wilt with thine own hand,
Thou form'st the spirit like the moulded clay;
For those who love Thee keep thy just command,
And in thine image grow as they obey;
New tints and forms with every hour they take
Whose life is fashioned by thy spirit's power;
The crimson dawn is round them when they wake,
And golden triumphs wait the evening hour;
The queenly-sceptred night their souls receives,
And spreads their pillows 'neath her sable tent;
Above them Sleep their palm with poppy weaves,
Sweet rest Thou hast to all who labor lent;
That they may rise refreshed to light again
And with Thee gather in the whitening grain.
poem by Jones Very
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Bitter and Sweet
Kindle, Saviour, in my heart,
A flame of love divine;
Hear, for mine I trust thou art,
And sure I would be thine;
If my soul has felt thy grace,
If to me thy name is known;
Why should trifles fill the place
Due to thyself alone?
'Tis a strange mysterious life
I live from day to day;
Light and darkness, peace and strife,
Bear an alternate sway:
When I think the battle won,
I have to fight it o'er again;
When I say I'm overthrown,
Relief I soon obtain.
Often at the mercy-seat,
While calling on thy name,
Swarms of evil thoughts I meet,
Which fill my soul with shame.
Agitated in my mind,
Like a feather in the air,
Can I thus a blessing find?
My soul, can this be pray'r?
But when Christ, my Lord and Friend,
Is pleas'd to show his pow'r
All at once my troubles end,
And I've a golden hour;
Then I see his smiling face,
Feel the pledge of joys to come:
Often, Lord, repeat this grace
Till thou shalt call me home.
poem by John Newton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Flee Babylon
The Lord our God, He lights our path
In the way that we must go
And the world is tossed by every wave
The wind it blows it to and fro
Stand up, stand up for Jesus
That is our clarion call
As the world begins to crumble
And the walls begin to fall
Why should we fear the darkness?
Why should we fear the light?
Wake up ye sleepy Christians
It's time to stand and fight
We bear the armor of the Lord
Let's step into the fray
Come now and fight while there's still light
And walk while its yet day
For fast the night approaches
With murder in its hand
The gates of hell have come to see
That we no longer stand
And even though they spill our blood
And victory they will hail
And all around be darkness
The gates shall not prevail
For Christ in all His glory
Will come and fill the sky
You'll hear the trumpet blowing
You'll hear the angel cry
Behold the King of glory
He's in His battle dress
And every knee on earth shall bow
And every tongue confess
Tha Jesus Christ is Lord of Lords
And He is King of kings
All glory to Emmanuel
Is what the angel sings
poem by Frank McEleny
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Psalm 88
Lord God that dost me save and keep,
All day to thee I cry;
And all night long, before thee weep
Before thee prostrate lie.
Into thy presence let my praier
With sighs devout ascend
And to my cries, that ceaseless are,
Thine ear with favour bend.
For cloy'd with woes and trouble store
Surcharg'd my Soul doth lie,
My life at death's uncherful dore
Unto the grave draws nigh.
Reck'n'd I am with them that pass
Down to the dismal pit
I am a *man, but weak alas * Heb. A man without manly
And for that name unfit. strength.
From life discharg'd and parted quite
Among the dead to sleep
And like the slain in bloody fight
That in the grave lie deep.
Whom thou rememberest no more,
Dost never more regard,
Them from thy hand deliver'd o're
Deaths hideous house hath barr'd.
Thou in the lowest pit profound'
Hast set me all forlorn,
Where thickest darkness hovers round,
In horrid deeps to mourn.
Thy wrath from which no shelter saves
Full sore doth press on me;
*Thou break'st upon me all thy waves, *The Heb.
*And all thy waves break me bears both.
Thou dost my friends from me estrange,
And mak'st me odious,
Me to them odious, for they change,
And I here pent up thus.
Through sorrow, and affliction great
Mine eye grows dim and dead,
Lord all the day I thee entreat,
My hands to thee I spread.
Wilt thou do wonders on the dead,
Shall the deceas'd arise
And praise thee from their loathsom bed
With pale and hollow eyes ?
Shall they thy loving kindness tell
On whom the grave hath hold,
Or they who in perdition dwell
Thy faithfulness unfold?
In darkness can thy mighty hand
Or wondrous acts be known,
Thy justice in the gloomy land
Of dark oblivion?
But I to thee O Lord do cry
E're yet my life be spent,
And up to thee my praier doth hie
Each morn, and thee prevent.
Why wilt thou Lord my soul forsake,
And hide thy face from me,
That am already bruis'd, and *shake *Heb. Prae Concussione.
With terror sent from thee;
Bruz'd, and afflicted and so low
As ready to expire,
While I thy terrors undergo
Astonish'd with thine ire.
Thy fierce wrath over me doth flow
Thy threatnings cut me through.
All day they round about me go,
Like waves they me persue.
Lover and friend thou hast remov'd
And sever'd from me far.
They fly me now whom I have lov'd,
And as in darkness are.
poem by John Milton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To Her I Love
Tell me, thou soul of her I love,
Ah! tell me, whither art thou fled;
To what delightful world above,
Appointed for the happy dead?
Or dost thou, free, at pleasure, roam
And sometimes share thy lover's woe;
Where, void of thee, his cheerless home
Can now, alas! no comfort know?
Oh! if thou hoverest round my walk,
While, under every well-known tree,
I to thy fancied shadow talk,
And every tear is full of thee;
Should then the weary eye of grief,
Beside some sympathetic stream,
In slumber find a short relief,
Visit thou my soothing dream!
poem by James Thomson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Author to her Book, The
Thou ill-form'd offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth did'st by my side remain,
Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad expos'd to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th' press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call.
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight,
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.
I wash'd thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet.
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save home-spun Cloth, i' th' house I find.
In this array, 'mongst Vulgars mayst thou roam.
In Critics' hands, beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known.
If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none;
And for thy Mother, she alas is poor,
Which caus'd her thus to send thee out of door.
poem by Anne Bradstreet
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Requiem
To what bright world afar didst thou belong,
Thou whose pure soul seemed not of mortal birth?
From what fair clime of flowers and love and song,
Cam'st thou, a star beam to our shadowed earth?
What hadst thou done, sweet spirit in that sphere,
That thou wert banished here?
Here, where our blossoms early fade and die,
Where autumn frosts despoil our loveliest bowers,
Where song goes up to heaven an anguished cry
From wounded hearts, like perfume from crushed flowers;
Where Love despairing waits and weeps in vain,
His Psyche to regain.
Thou cam'st not unattended on thy way; --
Spirits of grace and beauty, joy and love,
Were with thee ever, bearing each some ray
From the far home that thou hadst left above;
And ever at thy side, upon our sight
Gleamed forth their wings of light.
We heard their voices in the gushing song
That rose like incense from thy poet heart;
We saw the footsteps of the shining throng
Glancing upon thy pathway, high apart,
Where in thy radiance thou didst walk the earth,
Thou child of glorious birth.
But the way lengthened and the song grew sad,
Breathing those tones that find no echo here;
Aspiring, soaring, but no longer glad,
Its mournful music fell upon the ear:
'Twas the home-sickness of a soul that sighs
For its own native skies.
Then he that to earth's children comes at last,
The angel-messenger, white-robed and pale,
Upon thy soul his sweet oblivion cast,
And bore thee gently through the shadowy vale,
The fleeting years of thy brief exile o'er,
Home to the blissful shore.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
The Negro Father's Lamentation Over the Body of His Infant Son
Thou'rt dead, my boy!—my son!—my only child!—
And yet I may not shed one tear for thee,
Nor hanging o'er thy bier in anguish wild,
Upbraid the hand that bore thee far from me:
I cannot wish that thou hadst lived to share
Thy father's fate—his woes—and his despair!
I loved thee—oh! I need not say how well!
Thou wert my all of hopes or bliss on earth!
Yet I will not repine that thou dost dwell
In happiness, with her who gave thee birth,
While I, like yon dark rock of naked stone,
Must bear the storms that round me beat, alone.
'T is well! Thou wilt not share those storms with me,
That is my all of comfort in this hour—
I weep not, though I would have died for thee!
Ay, more than died— that sacrifice were poor—
I would have spurn'd the hand that set me free,
And clasp'd my chain, and lived a slave, for thee.
My boy! my darling boy! farewell, farewell!
Thou ne'er shalt feel the pangs that rend me now,
For still my heart with agony will swell,
To think, that never more upon my brow,
Thy little lips with fondness shall be prest,
As when I oft have clasp'd thee to my breast.
Yes! fare thee well! thy fond caress no more
Shall soothe the tortured throbbing of my heart,
As it full oft has done, when tyrant power
Has trampled me to earth, and round me prest
The chain of slavery, till my swelling heart
Has madden'd into frenzy with the smart.
Yet even then, though thou couldst calm my soul,
With thy soft lisping voice and childish glee,
While clasping thee, sad thoughts would o'er me roll,
Of what must be thy future destiny,
Till my hot tears have wet thy little face,
And thou hast wonder'd at my wild embrace.
But thou art dead!—it ne'er will be thy fate
To tremble at a cruel tyrant's frowns—
To bend in servile toil, to feed his state,
To feel the lash, and hear him mock thy groans.
Then fare thee well!—thy father will not weep,
Or wish to wake thee from thy peaceful sleep.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
Army Hymn
'OLD HUNDRED'
O LORD of Hosts! Almighty King!
Behold the sacrifice we bring
To every arm thy strength impart,
Thy spirit shed through every heart!
Wake in our breasts the living fires,
The holy faith that warmed our sires;
Thy hand hath made our Nation free;
To die for her is serving Thee.
Be Thou a pillared flame to show
The midnight snare, the silent foe;
And when the battle thunders loud,
Still guide us in its moving cloud.
God of all Nations! Sovereign Lord
In thy dread name we draw the sword,
We lift the starry flag on high
That fills with light our stormy sky.
From treason's rent, from murder's stain,
Guard Thou its folds till Peace shall reign,--
Till fort and field, till shore and sea,
Join our loud anthem, PRAISE TO THEE!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Dear Savior Of A Dying World
“The Lord is risen.”
Dear Savior of a dying world,
Where grief and change must be,
In the new grave where Thou wast laid
My heart lies down with Thee.
O, not in cold despair of joy,
Or weariness of pain,
But from a hope that shall not die,
To rise and live again.
I would arise in all Thy strength
My place on earth to fill,
To work out all my time of war
With love's unflinchng will.
Firm against every doubt of Thee
For all my future way —
To walk in Heaven's eternal light
Throughout the changing day.
Ah, such a day as Thou shalt own
When suns have ceased to shine
A day of burdens borne by Thee,
And work that all was Thine.
Speed Thy bright rising in my heart,
Thy righteous kingdom speed, —
Till my whole life in concord say,
“The Lord is risen indeed.”
O for an impulse from Thy love
With every coming breath,
To sing that sweet undying song
Amid the wrecks of death!
A “hail!” to every mortal pang
That bids me take my right
To glory in the blessed life
Which Thou hast brought to light.
I long to see the hallowed earth
In new creation rise,
To find the germs of Eden hid
Where its fallen beauty lies, —
To feel the spring–tide of a soul
By one deep love set free,
Made meet to lay aside her dust
And be at home with Thee.
And then — there shall be yet an end —
An end now full to bless!
How dear to those who watch for Thee
With human tenderness.
Then shall the saying come to pass
That makes our hope complete,
And, rising from the conquered grave,
Thy parted ones shall meet.
Yes — they shall meet, and face to face
By heart to heart be known,
Clothed with Thy Likeness, Lord of Life,
And perfect in their own.
For this corruptible must rise
From its corruption free,
And this frail mortal must put on
Thine immortality.
Shine then, Thou Resurrection Light,
Upon our sorrows shine!
The fulness of Thy joy be ours,
As all our griefs were Thine.
Now in this changing, dying life
Our faded hopes restore,
Till, in Thy triumph perfected,
We taste of death no more.
poem by Anna Laetitia Waring
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Mediator
O Christ, true Son of God most high,
Thy name we praise for ever;
Whoe'er to Thee for help doth cry
Shall find Thee fail him never;
'Tis Thou wilt plead,
Thou intercede
With God, for us who need Thy prayers so sore:
Thy bitter strife
Hath wrought us life,
And Thine be thanks and praise for evermore!
To Thee the Father giveth now
All power in earth and heaven;
Sin, Satan, Death to Thee must bow,
All fetters Thou hast riven,
Bade fear to cease,
And made our peace,
That now to God we dare our hearts outpour:
Thy bitter strife
Hath wrought us life,
And Thine be thanks and praise for evermore!
Fulness of grace is in Thy Word;
The Life, the Truth, the Way
To life eternal art Thou, Lord;
To Thee alone we pray,
Who didst appear
A servant here
To bear the sin that crushed the world before:
Thy bitter strife
Hath wrought us life,
And Thine be thanks and praise for evermore!
poem by Hans Sachs
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Psalm 89 part 6
v.47ff
L. M.
Mortality and hope. A funeral psalm.
Remember, Lord, our mortal state,
How frail our life! how short the date!
Where is the man that draws his breath
Safe from disease, secure from death'?
Lord, while we see whole nations die,
Our flesh and sense repine and cry,
"Must death for ever rage and reign?
Or hast thou made mankind in vain?
"Where is thy promise to the just?
Are not thy servants turned to dust?"
But faith forbids these mournful sighs,
And sees the sleeping dust arise.
That glorious hour, that dreadful day,
Wipes the reproach of saints away,
And clears the honor of thy word:
Awake, our souls, and bless the Lord.
poem by Isaac Watts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Yu-Pe-Ya’s Dirge For Tse-Ky
DEAD, my beloved! This small purple weed
That grows upon thy grave shall have its time
To ripen and to wane, to bloom and seed;
But thou, strong doer, mightst not wait thy deed,
But thou, oh noblest, mightst not wait thy meed:
Dead in thy prime!
Gone, my beloved! I that held thine hand
Left sudden in a joyless waste alone!
I tossing on life's sea, and thou to stand
Hidden in the shadows of the silent strand.
Thou seeing me from where I may not land!
Gone from me, gone!
Sleep well: but what for me who still must wake?
Dream joys: but what for me who can but weep?
Oh darkened days where never dawn shall break!
Oh weary troth-plight I with sorrow make!
But thou, rest peaceful; care not for my sake.
Dear, sleep thy sleep.
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
In San Lorenzo
Is thine hour come to wake, O slumbering Night?
Hath not the Dawn a message in thine ear?
Though thou be stone and sleep, yet shalt thou hear
When the word falls from heaven--Let there be light.
Thou knowest we would not do thee the despite
To wake thee while the old sorrow and shame were near;
We spake not loud for thy sake, and for fear
Lest thou shouldst lose the rest that was thy right,
The blessing given thee that was thine alone,
The happiness to sleep and to be stone:
Nay, we kept silence of thee for thy sake
Albeit we knew thee alive, and left with thee
The great good gift to feel not nor to see;
But will not yet thine Angel bid thee wake?
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Castle In Austria
From 'The Boy's Wonderhorn'
There lies a castle in Austria,
Right goodly to behold,
Walled tip with marble stones so fair,
With silver and with red gold.
Therein lies captive a young boy,
For life and death he lies bound,
Full forty fathoms under the earth,
'Midst vipers and snakes around.
His father came from Rosenberg,
Before the tower he went:--
'My son, my dearest son, how hard
Is thy imprisonment!'
'O father, dearest father mine,
So hardly I am bound,
Full forty fathoms under the earth,
'Midst vipers and snakes around!'
His father went before the lord:--
'Let loose thy captive to me!
I have at home three casks of gold,
And these for the boy I'll gi'e.'
'Three casks of gold, they help you not:
That boy, and he must die!
He wears round his neck a golden chain;
Therein doth his ruin lie.'
'And if he thus wear a golden chain,
He hath not stolen it; nay!
A maiden good gave it to him
For true love, did she say.'
They led the boy forth from the tower,
And the sacrament took he:--
'Help thou, rich Christ, from heaven high,
It's come to an end with me!'
They led him to the scaffold place,
Up the ladder he must go:--
'O headsman, dearest headsman, do
But a short respite allow!'
'A short respite I must not grant;
Thou wouldst escape and fly:
Reach me a silken handkerchief
Around his eyes to tie.'
'Oh, do not, do not bind mine eyes!
I must look on the world so fine;
I see it to-day, then never more,
With these weeping eyes of mine.'
His father near the scaffold stood,
And his heart, it almost rends:--
'O son, O thou my dearest son,
Thy death I will avenge!'
'O father, dearest father mine!
My death thou shalt not avenge:
'Twould bring to my soul but heavy pains;
Let me die in innocence.
'It is not for this life of mine,
Nor for my body proud;
'Tis but for my dear mother's sake:
At home she weeps aloud.'
Not yet three days had passed away,
When an angel from heaven came down:
'Take ye the boy from the scaffold away;
Else the city shall sink under ground!'
And not six months had passed away,
Ere his death was avenged amain;
And upwards of three hundred men
For the boy's life were slain.
Who is it that hath made this lay,
Hath sung it, and so on?
That, in Vienna in Austria,
Three maidens fair have done.
poem by Clemens Maria Brentano
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!