Classic Poem

I met a solemn, sable train,
Which wakened in my breast a sigh, —
For Death another friend had slain,
As his pale steed strode swiftly by.
Deep, dull, and thoughtful was their look, —
Soft, slow, and measured was their tread;
As if the clay were not forsook,
And they, afraid to rouse the dead.

Alas! I murmured, in my wo,
Must all of these King Death obey?
And be conveyed with step as slow,
To their lone, narrow bed of clay. —
Yes, all shall die! — this mortal man
That wraps my ever-living soul,
Must answer the Eternal's plan,
And slumber in Death's gloomy goal.

But how consoling is the thought —
How great the glorious promise given,
That Christ's all-precious blood has bought,
A place for fallen man in heaven.
'Tis this that cheers the heart contrite,
And soothes the sting of sin and sorrow,
Makes Death's severest struggles light —
The prospects of a happy morrow.