University of Virginia Library

I do remember him. His saintly voice,
So duly lifted in the house of God,
Comes with the far-off wing of infant years,
Like solemn music.
Often have we hush'd
The shrillest echo of our holiday,
Turning our mirth to reverence as he past,
And eager to record one favouring smile,
Or word paternal.
At the bed of death
I do remember him; when one who bore
For me a tender love, did feel that pang
Which makes the features rigid, and the eye
Like a fix'd glassy orb. Her head was white
With many winters; but her furrow'd brow
To me was beautiful; for she had cheer'd
My lonely childhood, with a changeless stream
Of pure benevolence.
His earnest tone
Girding her from the armoury of God,
To foil the terrors of that shadowy vale
Through which she walk'd, doth linger round me still;
And by that gush of bitter tears, when grief
First came into my bosom; by that thrill
Of agony, which from the open'd grave
Rose wildly forth—I do remember him,
The comforter and friend.
When fancy's smile,
Gilding youth's scenes, and promising to bring
The curtain'd morrow fairer than to-day,
Did kindle wilder gayety than fits
Beings so frail—how oft his funeral prayer
Over some shrouded sleeper, made a pause
In folly's song, or warn'd her roving eye,
That all man's glory was the flower of grass,
Beneath the mower's scythe.
Thy fourscore years
Sat lightly on thee; for thy heart was glad,
Even to the latest pulse, with that fond love,
Home-nurtur'd, and reciprocal, which girds
And garners up in sorrow or in joy.

I was not with the weepers, when the hearse
Stood all expectant at thy pleasant door,
And other voices from thy pulpit said,
That thou wert not; but yet the requiem-sigh
Of that sad organ, in its sable robe,
Made melancholy music for my dreams.

—And so, farewell, thou who didst shed the dew
Baptismal on mine infancy, and lead
To the Redeemer's sacred board a guest,
Timid and unassured, yet gathering strength
From the blest promise of Jehovah's aid
Unto the early seeker.

When once more
My native spot unfolds that pictur'd chart
Unto mine eye, which in my heart I hold,
Rocks, woods, and waters, exquisitely blent,
Thy cordial welcome I no more can hear,
Father and guide; nor can I hope to win
Thy glance from glory's mansion, while I lay
This wild-flower garland on thine honour'd tomb