 | Idle Moments : |  |
26
“If I Should Die.”
If I should die, and ne'er again
Behold the daylight dear to me,
Nor press the hand that once caressed,
Nor hear the voice of tenderness,
That spake in softest tones and free;
If I should die, would any heart
Feel for my lost? Would any deed
Of kindness wrought for ones in need
Rise up to bless me in the grave?
Behold the daylight dear to me,
Nor press the hand that once caressed,
Nor hear the voice of tenderness,
That spake in softest tones and free;
If I should die, would any heart
Feel for my lost? Would any deed
Of kindness wrought for ones in need
Rise up to bless me in the grave?
How have I lived?—for self alone,
Or for the good of those around,
Who soon may list to hear a sound,
From these my lips—then still in death?
Will children come to strew around
“Forget me not” upon my tomb?
Or shall I go “Unwept, unhonored and unsung,”
From earth fair face when death shall come
To claim me for its own,
And my dear ones be left alone.
Or for the good of those around,
Who soon may list to hear a sound,
From these my lips—then still in death?
Will children come to strew around
“Forget me not” upon my tomb?
Or shall I go “Unwept, unhonored and unsung,”
From earth fair face when death shall come
To claim me for its own,
And my dear ones be left alone.
I can not tell, but still must hope,
As does the meanest beggar found,
That to some heart my silent grave
Shall be enchanted ground, where oft
At evening's close fond feet may stray
To drop a tear: God grant it may
When I shall sleep in death's embrace,
Though safe “At home” I still would trust
That, to some heart, my silent dust
Shall mem'ries wake of sweetest strains.
As does the meanest beggar found,
That to some heart my silent grave
Shall be enchanted ground, where oft
At evening's close fond feet may stray
27
When I shall sleep in death's embrace,
Though safe “At home” I still would trust
That, to some heart, my silent dust
Shall mem'ries wake of sweetest strains.
When mute the lips, how soon forgot,
And tangled weeds but mark the spot,
Where sleeps the last of mortal clay:
And still the stars their vigils keep,
While night birds coo their mournful lays.
Good deeds live on; alone they shine,
And brighter grow 'mid coming years,
God's record fair; and when at last
The trump of God shall sound, white
Robes await the just and ramsomed there.
And tangled weeds but mark the spot,
Where sleeps the last of mortal clay:
And still the stars their vigils keep,
While night birds coo their mournful lays.
Good deeds live on; alone they shine,
And brighter grow 'mid coming years,
God's record fair; and when at last
The trump of God shall sound, white
Robes await the just and ramsomed there.
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