 | Poems |  |
341
HESPEROTHEN.
You ask me for a gift in rhyme,—
Some faint memorial of the power
Which graced your father's golden prime,
When hope and life were both in flower:
And fain would I, my son, indite
A strain, as sweet, as kind and true
As Poet-father e'er could write
To son as dearly loved as you.
Some faint memorial of the power
Which graced your father's golden prime,
When hope and life were both in flower:
And fain would I, my son, indite
A strain, as sweet, as kind and true
As Poet-father e'er could write
To son as dearly loved as you.
Fain would I breathe into my lay
The deep regret, the fond desire
Of that bright face so far away
Which sets our yearning hearts on fire,
And make you feel, if that might be,
How father, mother, sister true,
Brother and youthful friend agree
In longing and in love for you.
The deep regret, the fond desire
Of that bright face so far away
Which sets our yearning hearts on fire,
And make you feel, if that might be,
How father, mother, sister true,
Brother and youthful friend agree
In longing and in love for you.
Vain longing—and as vain regret!—
Between us ocean rolls and raves,
And many a year must vanish yet,
Or ere upon its dancing waves
The ship that bears our lost one home
Her white and welcome wings unfold,—
Ah!—long before that day shall come
Must many a loving heart be cold.
Between us ocean rolls and raves,
And many a year must vanish yet,
Or ere upon its dancing waves
The ship that bears our lost one home
Her white and welcome wings unfold,—
Ah!—long before that day shall come
Must many a loving heart be cold.
342
And you, my son, are weak and faint,
And from that fierce and fiery clime
Perchance even now imbibe a taint
Still deadlier than the touch of Time:
And he, with swift, insidious flight,
Already steals our strength away,—
Already dims your father's sight,
And turns your mother's tresses grey.
And from that fierce and fiery clime
Perchance even now imbibe a taint
Still deadlier than the touch of Time:
And he, with swift, insidious flight,
Already steals our strength away,—
Already dims your father's sight,
And turns your mother's tresses grey.
God knows if in this world below
We shall again behold our son;
God help us, if our tears must flow,—
To say indeed—His will be done!—
God cherish, in our hearts and yours,
Feeling and thought which will not die,—
The love which strengthens and endures,
When faith and hope are both gone by.
We shall again behold our son;
God help us, if our tears must flow,—
To say indeed—His will be done!—
God cherish, in our hearts and yours,
Feeling and thought which will not die,—
The love which strengthens and endures,
When faith and hope are both gone by.
Meanwhile do thoughts “too deep for tears”
Full oft oppress your father's mind,
Of angry words in earlier years,
Of hasty words and looks unkind,
Of passion feebly held in check,
Of sharp rebuke and sudden blow,—
Till he would fall upon your neck
And let his swelling heart o'erflow.
Full oft oppress your father's mind,
Of angry words in earlier years,
Of hasty words and looks unkind,
Of passion feebly held in check,
Of sharp rebuke and sudden blow,—
Till he would fall upon your neck
And let his swelling heart o'erflow.
And, more than this, remembrance tells
Of that which is my nature's bane,—
The shy reserve which shuts the cells
Of feeling in my heart and brain;
The fetters which lock up my tongue
When it should speak on things divine
To craving hearts of old and young,—
The hearts which are most dearly mine.
Of that which is my nature's bane,—
The shy reserve which shuts the cells
Of feeling in my heart and brain;
The fetters which lock up my tongue
When it should speak on things divine
To craving hearts of old and young,—
The hearts which are most dearly mine.
343
For this—for all of past offence—
For wrong committed, right not done,
Through rashness or through negligence,
Forgive your father, O my son:
Both he and you, for many a debt,
Have too much need to be forgiven
By Him whose mercy spares us yet,—
Our Father—yours and mine—in Heaven.
For wrong committed, right not done,
Through rashness or through negligence,
Forgive your father, O my son:
Both he and you, for many a debt,
Have too much need to be forgiven
By Him whose mercy spares us yet,—
Our Father—yours and mine—in Heaven.
No more!—yet take the printed tomes
With this imperfect utterance sent;—
They breathe of English hearths and homes,
Of wedded peace—of heart-content;
Of all which, in the morn of life,
My fond imagination prized;
All which, in children, home and wife,
My riper years have realized.
With this imperfect utterance sent;—
They breathe of English hearths and homes,
Of wedded peace—of heart-content;
Of all which, in the morn of life,
My fond imagination prized;
All which, in children, home and wife,
My riper years have realized.
And some few loftier notes there be
Those earthly melodies among,—
Half feeling, and half phantasy,—
Weak yearnings for diviner song:
O! to your father's lyric art
May power and might through these be given
To wake in your responsive heart
The music and the mind of Heaven!
Those earthly melodies among,—
Half feeling, and half phantasy,—
Weak yearnings for diviner song:
O! to your father's lyric art
May power and might through these be given
To wake in your responsive heart
The music and the mind of Heaven!
And may your inward ear discern
The ground-tone of my varying strain,
And still from mine your spirit learn
To prize the pleasure and the pain
Of wedded life, of wedded love,
Of faith in higher bliss to be,—
Of peace on earth—of hope above
For Time and for Eternity!
The ground-tone of my varying strain,
And still from mine your spirit learn
To prize the pleasure and the pain
Of wedded life, of wedded love,
Of faith in higher bliss to be,—
Of peace on earth—of hope above
For Time and for Eternity!
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