Euthanasia

Methinks, when on the languid eye
Life's autumn scenes grow dim;
When evening's shadows veil the sky,
And Pleasure's syren hymn
Grows fainter on the tuneless ear,
Like echoes from another sphere,
Or dream of seraphim,
It were not sad to cast away
This dull and cumbrous load of clay.
It were not sad to feel the heart
Grow passionless and cold;
To feel those longings to depart
That cheer'd the good of old;
To clasp the faith which looks on high,
Which fires the Christian's dying eye,
And makes the curtain-fold
That falls upon his wasting breast
The door that leads to endless rest.
It were not lonely thus to lie
On that triumphant bed,
Till the pure spirit mounts on high,
By white-wing'd seraphs led:
Where glories earth may never know
O'er "many mansions" lingering glow,
In peerless lustre shed;
It were not lonely thus to soar,
Where sin and grief can sting no more.
And, though the way to such a goal
Lies through the clouded tomb,
If on the free, unfetter'd soul
There rest no stains of gloom,
How should its aspirations rise
Far through the blue, unpillar'd skies,
Up, to its final home!
Beyond the journeyings of the sun,
Where streams of living waters run.