Descend, O sin­ner, to the woe!
Thy day of hope is done;
Light shall re­vi­sit thee no more,
Life with its san­guine dreams is o’er,
Love reach­es not yon aw­ful shore;
For ev­er sets thy sun!

Pass down to the eter­nal dark;
Yet not for rest nor sleep;
Thine is the ev­er­last­ing tomb,
Thine the in­ex­or­able doom,
The moon­less, morn­less, sun­less gloom,
Where souls for ev­er weep.

Depart, lost soul, thy tears to weep,
Thy ne­ver dry­ing tears;
To sigh the ne­ver end­ing sigh,
To send up the un­heed­ed cry,
Into the un­re­spond­ing sky,
Whose si­lence mocks thy fears.

Call up­on God; He hears no more;
Call up­on death; ’tis dead;
Ask the live light­nings in their flight,
Seek for some sword of hell and night,
The worm that ne­ver dies to smite;
No wea­pon strikes its head.

Thou liv­est, and must ev­er live;
But life is now thy foe;
Thine is the sor­row shri­veled brow,
Thine the eter­nal heart­ache now,
’Neath the long burd­en thou must bow,
The liv­ing death of woe.

Thy songs are at an end; thy harp
Shall so­lace thee no more;
All mirth has per­ished on thy grave,
The me­lo­dy that could not save
Has died up­on death’s sul­len wave
That flung thee on this shore.

Earth, with its waves, and woods, and winds,
Its stars, and suns, and streams,
Its joy­ous air and gen­tle skies,
Filled with all hap­py me­lo-dies,
Has passed, or, with dark me­mo­ries,
Comes back in tor­tur­ing dreams.

Never again shalt thou be­hold,
As when a bound­ing boy,
The fresh buds of the frag­rant spring,
Its song birds on their Ap­ril wing,
And all its vales a-blos­som­ing;
Or sum­mer’s ro­sy joy.

No ri­ver of for­get­ful­ness,
As po­ets dreamed and sung,
Rolls yon­der to ef­face the past,
To quench the sense of what thou wast,
To soothe or end thy pain at last,
Or cool thy burn­ing tongue.

No God is there; no Christ; for He,
Whose word on earth was Come,
Hath said, De­part: go, lost one, go,
Reap the sad har­vest thou didst sow,
Join yon lost an­gels in their woe,
Their pri­son is thy home.

Descend, O sin­ner, to the gloom!
Hear the deep judg­ment-knell
Send forth its ter­ror-shriek­ing sound
These walls of ada­mant around,
And fill­ing to its ut­most bound
Thy woe­ful, woe­ful hell.

Depart, O sin­ner, to the chain!
Enter the eter­nal cell;
To all that’s good, and true, and right,
To all that’s fond, and fair, and bright,
To all of ho­li­ness and light,
Bid thou thy last fare­well!