 | Poems |  |
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SONGS OF FAREWELL.
PARTING.
“They that my trust must grow to, dwell not here,
They are with all my other comforts,
Far hence.”
They are with all my other comforts,
Far hence.”
Oh! speak of me, my friends! when I am gone
Bind with my name some old familiar strain,
That it may bear a greeting on its tone
From One, heart-woven with its linkèd chain.
Bind with my name some old familiar strain,
That it may bear a greeting on its tone
From One, heart-woven with its linkèd chain.
For I will speak of you! your names will rise
When the full heart would of its treasure tell,
And I will seek in stranger looks and eyes
To trace the aspects I have loved so well.
When the full heart would of its treasure tell,
And I will seek in stranger looks and eyes
To trace the aspects I have loved so well.
Oh! think of me, my friends! when I am gone
Let not my memory lightly pass away,
With pleasant songs forgotten—or as one
A stranger-guest, abiding but a day.
Let not my memory lightly pass away,
With pleasant songs forgotten—or as one
A stranger-guest, abiding but a day.
For I will think of you! a purer ray
Will gild Life's journey, flung from times of old,
And Thought will reckon o'er, when far away,
Their gentle memories—its hoarded gold.
Will gild Life's journey, flung from times of old,
And Thought will reckon o'er, when far away,
Their gentle memories—its hoarded gold.
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Oh! dream of me, my friends! when I am gone,
Then be your happy slumbers lightly stirred
By tender shadows from the distance thrown,
By echoes sweet of some remembered word.
Then be your happy slumbers lightly stirred
By tender shadows from the distance thrown,
By echoes sweet of some remembered word.
For on my visions haunting forms will rise,
And I will seek in sleep a clasping hand,
And I shall look within those much-loved eyes,
Once more, within the pleasant dreaming-land!
And I will seek in sleep a clasping hand,
And I shall look within those much-loved eyes,
Once more, within the pleasant dreaming-land!
Oh! pray for me, my friends! when I am gone
Still with your voices let my name arise,
Where once my accents mingled in the tone
Of your sweet hymns and twilight harmonies.
Still with your voices let my name arise,
Where once my accents mingled in the tone
Of your sweet hymns and twilight harmonies.
For I will pray for you! my spirit lone
Will seek the language that its kindred share;
Yes! there, beloved friends! when I am gone
It will be mine, dear friends, to meet you there!
Will seek the language that its kindred share;
Yes! there, beloved friends! when I am gone
It will be mine, dear friends, to meet you there!
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DEATH.
“Leaves and clustered fruits, and flowers eterne,
Eternal to the world, but not to me.”
—Hood.
Eternal to the world, but not to me.”
—Hood.
The Spring will come again, dear friends,
The Swallow o'er the Sea;
The bud will hang upon the bough,
The blossom on the tree;
And many a pleasant sound will rise to greet her on her way,
The voice of bird, and leaf, and stream, and warm winds in their play;
Oh! sweet the airs that round her breathe! and bountiful is she,
She bringeth all the things that fresh, and sweet, and hopeful be;
She scatters promise on the Earth with open hand and free,
But not for me, my friends,
But not for me!
The Swallow o'er the Sea;
The bud will hang upon the bough,
The blossom on the tree;
And many a pleasant sound will rise to greet her on her way,
The voice of bird, and leaf, and stream, and warm winds in their play;
Oh! sweet the airs that round her breathe! and bountiful is she,
She bringeth all the things that fresh, and sweet, and hopeful be;
She scatters promise on the Earth with open hand and free,
But not for me, my friends,
But not for me!
Summer will come again, dear friends,
Low murmurs of the Bee
Will rise through the long sunny day
Above the flowery lea;
The deep and dreamy woods will own the slumbrous spell she weaves,
And send a greeting, mixed with sighs, through all their quivering leaves.
Oh, precious are her glowing gifts! and plenteous is she,
She bringeth all the lovely things that bright and fragrant be;
She scatters fulness on the Earth with lavish hand and free,
But not for me, my friends,
But not for me!
Low murmurs of the Bee
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Above the flowery lea;
The deep and dreamy woods will own the slumbrous spell she weaves,
And send a greeting, mixed with sighs, through all their quivering leaves.
Oh, precious are her glowing gifts! and plenteous is she,
She bringeth all the lovely things that bright and fragrant be;
She scatters fulness on the Earth with lavish hand and free,
But not for me, my friends,
But not for me!
Autumn will come again, dear friends,
His spirit-touch will be
With gold upon the harvest-field,
With crimson on the tree;
He passeth o'er the silent woods, they wither at his breath,
Slow fading in a still decay, a change that is not Death.
Oh! rich, and liberal, and wise, and provident is he!
He taketh to his Garner-house the things that ripened be;
He gathereth his store from Earth, all silently—
And he will gather me, my friends,
He will gather me!
His spirit-touch will be
With gold upon the harvest-field,
With crimson on the tree;
He passeth o'er the silent woods, they wither at his breath,
Slow fading in a still decay, a change that is not Death.
Oh! rich, and liberal, and wise, and provident is he!
He taketh to his Garner-house the things that ripened be;
He gathereth his store from Earth, all silently—
And he will gather me, my friends,
He will gather me!
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