 | Poems |  |
“YE SHALL SEEK ME IN THE MORNING, BUT SHALL NOT BE.”
The friend who taught my infant tongue
Its broken utterance to combine,
Who bending o'er my slumbers sung
Her cradle-hymn with smile benign,
Who in my childish sports would share
The gayest laugh, the wildest glee,
And in my hour of youthful care
Dispel its sadness,—where is she?—
Its broken utterance to combine,
Who bending o'er my slumbers sung
Her cradle-hymn with smile benign,
Who in my childish sports would share
The gayest laugh, the wildest glee,
And in my hour of youthful care
Dispel its sadness,—where is she?—
The morning o'er the gilded grove
Bright on the kindling landscape fell,
I sought her where she oft did rove
In want and sorrow's lonely cell;—
I sought her in the hallow'd dome
Where sabbath bells peal'd loud and clear,
I sought her in her peaceful home
But heard no more her welcome dear.
Bright on the kindling landscape fell,
I sought her where she oft did rove
In want and sorrow's lonely cell;—
I sought her in the hallow'd dome
Where sabbath bells peal'd loud and clear,
I sought her in her peaceful home
But heard no more her welcome dear.
I sate me in her custom'd seat,
But there her book unopen'd lay,
Her garden breathed its fragrance sweet
From thousand shrubs and flowrets gay,
Her lillies pale did graceful bend,
Her green vine clasp'd its favorite tree,
But she who used those sweets to tend,
And love their beauty,—where was she?—
But there her book unopen'd lay,
Her garden breathed its fragrance sweet
From thousand shrubs and flowrets gay,
Her lillies pale did graceful bend,
Her green vine clasp'd its favorite tree,
53
And love their beauty,—where was she?—
Sighing, I sought that lonely place,
Where cypress shades the sleeping dust,
Where grieved affection oft may trace
The idols of its fondest trust:—
The cold dews bathed a narrow mound,
The tall, rank grass waved wide and free,
The sweeping gale return'd a sound,
And seem'd to echo—“where is she?”—
Where cypress shades the sleeping dust,
Where grieved affection oft may trace
The idols of its fondest trust:—
The cold dews bathed a narrow mound,
The tall, rank grass waved wide and free,
The sweeping gale return'd a sound,
And seem'd to echo—“where is she?”—
But answering to my wounded breast
Methought a hovering spirit said,
“Thou who dost break this holy rest
To seek the living mid the dead,
Thy Guide is risen!”—Deep silence fell!—
Awe struck my heart unknown before,—
No more shall impious grief rebel,
This murmuring lip presume no more.—
Methought a hovering spirit said,
“Thou who dost break this holy rest
To seek the living mid the dead,
Thy Guide is risen!”—Deep silence fell!—
Awe struck my heart unknown before,—
No more shall impious grief rebel,
This murmuring lip presume no more.—
“Thy Guide is risen!”—'Tis well!—'Tis well!—
Her heart was in a higher sphere,
For harps of angels seem'd to swell
Congenial on her earthly ear;—
Her home was not where storms resound,
Where discord waves a blood-stain'd rod,
Where sorrow stalks his hourly round,—
Her home was heaven,—she rose to God.
Her heart was in a higher sphere,
For harps of angels seem'd to swell
Congenial on her earthly ear;—
Her home was not where storms resound,
Where discord waves a blood-stain'd rod,
Where sorrow stalks his hourly round,—
Her home was heaven,—she rose to God.
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