Fear death?—­to feel the fog in my throat,
  The mist in my face,
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
  I am nearing the place,
The power of the night, the press of the storm,
  The post of the foe;
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,
  Yet the strong man must go: 
For the journey is done and the summit attained,
  And the barriers fall,
Though a battle’s to fight ere the guerdon be gained,
  The reward of it all. 
I was ever a fighter, so—­one fight more,
  The best and the last! 
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,
  And bade me creep past. 
No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers
  The heroes of old,
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life’s arrears
  Of pain, darkness and cold. 
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,
  The black minute’s at end,
And the elements’ rage, the fiend-voices that rave,
  Shall dwindle, shall blend,
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain.

  Then a light, then thy breast,
O thou soul of my soul!  I shall clasp thee again,
  And with God be the rest!

ROBERT BROWNING.

I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY.

I would not live alway—­live alway below! 
Oh no, I’ll not linger when bidden to go: 
The days of our pilgrimage granted us here
Are enough for life’s woes, full enough for its cheer: 
Would I shrink from the path which the prophets of God,
Apostles, and martyrs, so joyfully trod? 
Like a spirit unblest, o’er the earth would I roam,
While brethren and friends are all hastening home?

I would not live alway:  I ask not to stay
Where storm after storm rises dark o’er the way;
Where seeking for rest we but hover around,
Like the patriarch’s bird, and no resting is found;
Where Hope, when she paints her gay bow in the air. 
Leaves its brilliance to fade in the night of despair,
And joy’s fleeting angel ne’er sheds a glad ray,
Save the gleam of the plumage that bears him away.

I would not live alway—­thus fettered by sin,
Temptation without and corruption within;
In a moment of strength if I sever the chain,
Scarce the victory’s mine, ere I’m captive again;
E’en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears,
And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent tears: 
The festival trump calls for jubilant songs,
But my spirit her own miserere prolongs.

I would not live alway—­no, welcome the tomb,
Since Jesus hath lain there I dread not its gloom;
Where he deigned to sleep, I’ll too bow my head,
All peaceful to slumber on that hallowed bed. 
Then the glorious daybreak, to follow that night,
The orient gleam of the angels of light,
With their clarion call for the sleepers to rise. 
And chant forth their matins, away to the skies.