Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
XI. O Come Quickly. Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shoreThomas Campion (15671620)
N
Never tirèd 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.
Cold age deafs not there our ears, nor vapour dims our eyes:
Glory there the Sun outshines, whose beams the blessèd only see;
O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to Thee.