Portsmouth, 1830

When I am in my grave,
The busy clouds will wander on;
This Moon, that silver-tips each dancing wave,
Will shine as it hath shone.

When I am low in ground,
The Spring will call and wake the flowers,
And yonder little knoll will show as gay
As it hath bloomed when ours.

When I am in the sky,
Long leagues above the evening-star,
The city-hum shall sound as fitfully
As now it comes from far.

When I am spirit clear,
More pure than is this Ocean-moon,
The false world in the great Eternal's ear
Shall make no better tune.

God, lift me from the power
Of flesh-corruption: how shall I
Bear to be borne along with stainless flower
And fleecy cloud on high!

God, lift up unto me
The sinning heart of human-kind;
How can I flutter down the skies and see
Their errant souls and blind?

Or wrap me in the light
That folds thy glory's outer zone;
Be Thou the sole horizon to my sight,
Content in Thee alone.