Breathing Toward the Heavenly Country

The beauty of my native land

Immortal love inspires;

I burn, I burn with strong desires,
And sigh, and wait the high command.

There glides the moon her shining way.

And shoots my heart thro’ with a silver ray,
Upward my heart aspires:
A thousand lamps of golden light
Hung high in vaulted azure, charm my sight.

And wiidf and beckon with then amorous fires.

O ye fair glories of my heavenly home.
Bright sentinels who guard my Father’s court,
Where all the happy minds resort.

When will my Father’s chariot come?

Must we for ever walk the ethereal round?
For ever see the mourner lie
An exile of the sky,

A pris’ner of the gi’ound?
Descend some shining servants from on high,

Build me a hasty tomb;
A gi-assy turf will raise my head;
The neighboring lilies dress my bed;

And shed a cheap perfume.
Here I put off the chains of death,

My soul too long has worn:
Friends, I forbid one groaning breath,

Or tear to wet my urn;
Raphael, behold me all undrest.
Here gently lay this flesh to rest;
Then mount, and lead the path unknown.
Swift I pursue thee, flaming guide, on pinions of my own.

* Casimire, book i. od. 19. Imitated. ’ f