186                   O come quickly!

NEVER weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore,
Never tiràed pilgrim’s limbs affected slumber more,
Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled
    breast:
O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest!

Ever blooming are the joys of heaven’s high Paradise,
Cold age deafs not there our ears nor vapour dims our eyes:
Glory there the sun outshines; whose beams the Blessàed only
    see:
O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to Thee!