The Dying Fugitive
Stole the warning shades of death;And we knew the shadowing angel
Waited for his parting breath.
And his heart beat firm and high—But before he won the guerdon,
Came the message—he must die.
Lay the long'd for, precious prize—And the hoeps that lit him onward,
Faded out before his eyes.
Rested on his weary brain;And he thought the hateful tyrant,
Had rebound his galling chain.
"Take me where that good man dwells!"For a name to freedom precious
Lingered 'mid life's shattered cells.
O'er the storm-cloud's gloomy track—Through the tempests of his bosom,
Came the light of reason back.
For the home he'd left behind,Calmly yielded he his spirit,
To the Father of mankind.
He with eager steps had trop—E'er his ransomed spirit rested,
On the bosom of his God.