When is the Time to Die?

I asked the glad and happy child,
Whose hands were filled with flowers;
Whose silvery laugh rang free and wild
Among the vine-wreathed flowers:
I crossed her sunny path and cried
“When is the time to die!”
“Not yet! not yet!” the child replied,
And swiftly bounded by.

I asked a maiden; back she threw
The tresses of her hair;
Grief’s traces o’er her cheeks I knew—
Like pearls they glistened there;
A flush passed o’er her lily brow
I heard her spirit sigh;
“Not now,” she cried, “O no! not now,
Youth is no time to die!”

I asked a mother, as she pressed
Her first-born in her arms,
As gently on her tender breast
She hushed her babe’s alarms,
In quivering tones her accents came—
Her eyes were dim with tears;
“My boy his mother’s life must claim
For many, many years.”

I questioned one in manhood’s prime,
Of proud and fearless air;
His brow was furrowed not by time,
Or dimmed by woe or care.
In angry accents he replied,
And flashed with scorn his eye
“Talk not to me of death,” he cried,
“For only age should die.”

I questioned age; for him the tomb
Had long been all prepared;
But death, who withers youth and bloom,
This man of years had spared.
Once more his nature’s dying fire
Flashed high and thus he cried—
“Life! only life is my desire!”
Then gasped, and groaned, and died.

I asked a Christian—”Answer thou,
When is the hour of death?”
A holy calm was on his brow,
And peaceful was his breath;
And sweetly o’er his features stole
A smile, a light divine;
He spake the language of his soul—
“My Master’s time is mine.”