Only a tomb, no more,
A future resting place
When God shall lay thee down and bid
All thy long wanderings cease.
This cave and field—no more
Canst thou thy dwelling call
That land of thine—plains, hills, woods, streams,
The stranger has it all.
Thy altar and thy tent
Are all that thou hast here.
With these content, thou passest on,
A homeless wanderer.
Thy life unrest and toil,
Thy course a pilgrimage;
Only in death thou goest up
To claim thy heritage.
A heritage of life
Beyond this guarded gloom,
A kingdom, not a field or cave,
A city, not a tomb.
—HORATIUS BONAR