Classic Poem

NOW let me close mine eyes;
And strive to picture to myself the day,
When, stretch'd in my last dying agonies,
I here no more may stay.

Ah! when will be the time
For thee, my soul, to wing thy solemn flight?
Shall it be Winter's snow, or Summer's prime?
Shall it be day or night?

And shall it be my lot,
Prepar'd by Sacraments of grace to die?
Or shall I perish in some lonely spot,
No Priest of Jesus nigh?

And will my death come slow,
Or sudden as the lightning's vivid blast?
Ah, me! I cannot say: — but this I know,
That come it must at last.

O, then, since thus I live,
Certain of death — uncertain of the day —
This grace to me, immortal Saviour, give,
In Thy dear love, I pray;

That, whatsoe'er befall
Of good or ill, I evermore may be
Ready, whenever sounds Thy solemn call,
At once to answer Thee!