The Pauper’s Death-Bed

Tread softly,—bow the head,—
In reverent silence bow,—
No passing-bell doth toll,
Yet an immortal soul
Is passing now.

Stranger, however great,
With lowly reverence bow;
There’s one in that poor shed—
One by that paltry bed—
Greater than thou.

Beneath that beggar’s roof,
Lo! Death doth keep his state.
Enter, no crowds attend;
Enter, no guards defend
This palace gate.

That pavement, damp and cold,
No smiling courtiers tread;
One silent woman stands,
Lifting with meagre hands
A dying head.

No mingling voices sound,—
An infant wail alone;
A sob suppressed,—again
That short deep gasp, and then—
The parting groan.

O change! O wondrous change!
Burst are the prison bars,—
This moment there so low,
So agonized, and now
Beyond the stars.

O change! stupendous change!
There lies the soulless clod;
The sun eternal breaks,
The new immortal wakes,—
Wakes with his God.

Caroline Bowles Southey.