Wise in his day that heathen emperor,
To whom, each morrow, came a slave, and cried—
“Philip, remember thou must die;” no more.
To me such daily voice were misapplied—
Disease guests with me; and each cough, or cramp,
Or aching, like the Macedonian slave,
Is my memento mori. ’Tis the stamp
Of God’s true life to be in dying brave.
“I fear not death, but dying”—not the long
Hereafter, sweetened by immortal love;
But the quick, terrible last breath—the strong
Convulsion. Oh, my Lord of breath above!
Grant me a quiet end, in easeful rest—
A sweet removal, on my mother’s breast.