An Aspiration Poem by John Bowring

If 'twere but to retire from woe,
To undisturb'd eternal rest-
How passing sweet to sleep below,
On nature's fair and flow'ry breast!


But when faith's finger points on high,
From death's decaying, dismal cell;
O 'tis a privilege to die-
To dream of bliss ineffable!


In balmy sleep our eyes to close,
When life's last sunshine gilds our even,
And then to wake from long repose,
When dawns the glorious day of heaven.