Say not good-by! Dear friend, from thee
A word too sad that word would be.
Say not good-by! Say but good-night,
And say it with thy tender, light,
Caressing voice, that links the bliss
Of yet another day with this.
Say but good-night!
Say not good-by! Say but good-night:
A word that blesses in its flight,
In leaving hope of many a kind,
Sweet day, like this we leave behind.
Say but good-night! Oh, never say
A word that taketh thee away!
Say but good-night! Good-night!
Life! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part;
And when, or how, or where we met,
I own to me's a secret yet.
Life, we have been long together,
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 'Tis hard to part where friends are dear,
Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear.
Then steal away, give little warning;
Choose thine own time;
Say not Good-night, but in some brighter clime
Is it where the flower of the orange blows, And the fire-flies dance through the myrtle boughs?"
"Not there, not there, my child!"
"Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange bright birds on their starry wings
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?".
"Not there, not there, my child!"
"Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold?
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?”
"Not there, not there, my child!
Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy;
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair,
Sorrow and death may not enter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom;
For beyond the clouds and beyond the tomb,
It is there, it is there, my child!"
Oh, what is this splendor that beams on me now,
This beautiful sunrise that dawns on my soul,
While faint and far off land and sea lie below,
And under my feet the huge golden clouds roll?
To what mighty king doth this city belong,
With its rich jewelled shrines, and its gardens of flowers;
With its breaths of sweet incense, its measures of song, And the light that is gilding its numberless towers?
And, oh, if the exiles of earth could but win
One sight of the beauty of Jesus above,
From that hour they would cease to be able to sin,
And earth would be heaven; for heaven is love.
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