Benediction

When the sweet syllables that form thy name 
     Are on my lips, ere yet the conscious air 
     Receives their music, in my heart a prayer
(The offspring of a reverent love) doth claim
Of heaven a boon for thee. Thou canst not guess
Its nature: 'tis not wealth — nor happiness —
Nor poet-fame, by many coveted
     As the best good of all — nor idle ease,
On velvet couched, and skied by silk overhead, 
     And lulled to sleep by silvery cadences;
For luxury palls, and fame is but a breath ;
     Wealth bloats with pride, or, even worse, contracts 
     The soul to petty thoughts and paltry acts,
And happiness is tested but by death!

No, no! for thee my loving heart hath wrought 
A nobler wish, with better reason fraught,
     Worthier thyself, beloved! therefore, best. 
Thine be a life not free from pain and care, 
But nobly good and sanctified by prayer;
     Finding in duty, peace made manifest,
Equal to all that fortune may bestow 
Of good or ill, of happiness or woe; 
Taught by them all thy trust in God to place, 
From all deriving needed strength and grace
     To tread the flinty path or flowery way, 
The while thy soul shall evermore expand, 
And all thy hopes grow beautiful and grand,
     Tinged with the dawn-light of the heavenly day! 
Such life, or long, or short, breathes holy breath, 
And, bright'ning still, is perfected by death!