Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent,
Rider and horse--friend, foe--in one red burial blent!

--From "CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE."

* * * * *

HENRY FRANCIS LYTE
ENGLAND, 1793-1847

ABIDE WITH ME

Abide with me! Fast falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide:
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me.

Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day;
Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away;
Change and decay in all around I see;
O Thou who changest not, abide with me.

I need Thy presence every passing hour;
What but Thy grace can foil the tempter's power?
Who, like Thyself, my guide and stay can be?
Through cloud and sunshine, Lord, abide with me.

I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless:
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.
Where is Death's sting? Where, Grave, thy victory?