To Thee, my God, to Thee I call!
Whatever weal or woe betide,
By thy command I rise or fall,
In thy protection I confide.
If, when this dust to dust restored,
My soul shall float on airy wing,
How shall thy glorious name adored,
Inspire her feeble voice to sing!
But, if this fleeting spirit share
With clay the grave's eternal bed,
While life yet throbs, I raise my prayer,
Though doom'd no more to quit the dead.
To Thee I breathe my humble strain,
Grateful for all thy mercies past,
And hope, my God, to thee again
This erring life may fly at last.
"29th Dec. 1806.
BYRON."
In another of these poems, which extends to about a hundred lines, and
which he wrote under the melancholy impression that he should soon
die, we find him concluding with a prayer in somewhat the same spirit.
After bidding adieu to all the favourite scenes of his youth,[68] he
thus continues,--
"Forget this world, my restless sprite,
Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heav'n:
There must thou soon direct thy night,
If errors are forgiven.
To bigots and to sects unknown.
Bow down beneath the Almighty's throne;--
To him address thy trembling prayer;
He, who is merciful and just,
Will not reject a child of dust,
Although his meanest care.
Father of Light, to thee I call,
My soul is dark within;
Thou, who canst mark the sparrow fall,
Avert the death of sin.
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