The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done
Life of my life, 'take not so soon thy flight
The last gift that death demands
I ask no monument, proud and high,
What sudden pangs shot thro’ each aching heart,
When, Death, thy messenger dispatch’d his dart?
Seldom except in books do the dying utter memorable words, see visions, or depart with beatified countenances, and those who have sped many parting souls know that to most the end comes as naturally and simply as sleep.
"I'm not weary, I don't WANT to rest," Judy said, in a fretful tone.
‘How fast the river runs, between its green banks and the rushes, Floy! But it’s very near the sea. I hear the waves! They always said so!’