Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

They say that, since I wander'd last
Amidst my childhood's haunts and bowers,
A spirit to the skies hath past
From these romantic vales of ours,
For whom all gentle hearts make moan,
Each feeling all the loss its own.

II

And I, they say, must not withhold
A funeral chaplet from her bier;
For that her love was shared of old
By many to my memory dear;
And that, in youth, there fell on me
Some flashes of her brilliancy.

III

They bid me think on days long past,
When first that gentle face I knew,
Whose lineaments are fading fast
In dark decay's sepulchral hue;
They tell me of her graceful form,
Where banquets now the hungry worm.

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IV

And they remind me of her voice,
And of her magic minstrel skill,
Whose music made e'en grief rejoice—
But those rich notes are vocal still;
Blending their sweetness with the hymn
Of Heaven's melodious seraphim.

V

They tell me that her heart was kind
And pure as hearts of angels be;
They tell me thought enrich'd her mind,—
And I believed them; though to me
What matters now its richest worth,
Since she's in Heaven, and I on earth?

VI

They tell me that, in later years,
Her hopes were all with Christ in Heaven?
That she had wash'd her heart in tears,
And felt sweet peace for sins forgiven.
I doubt them not; would God that I
Could thus to Time's poor trifles die!

VII

So she is in her earthy bed,—
Her place in this world's void for aye;
She rests among the saintly dead,
Asleep until the judgment day;
And they, who loved her, vainly long
For her sweet looks, and words, and song.

VIII

They look and long: beside their hearth
They listen for her voice in vain;

333

By day or night, in grief or mirth,
They may not hear its tones again:
With craving heart, and aching eye,
They seek her still unconsciously.

IX

And there are reliques, fair though few,
Which of her sweetness she hath left;
The forms her fairy pencil drew,
The garden of her care bereft;
The children, who as dear had grown,
To her, as they had been her own.

X

And poor men weep upon her grave
For many a blessing now no more;
The words she spake, the gifts she gave,
The balm her kindness loved to pour
Into their bleeding hearts, when care
And want, and grief were rankling there.

XI

And who shall fill her place on earth?
And who her mother's tears shall dry?
And who relieve her sister's dearth
Of love, and bliss, and sympathy?
What voice shall summon from the dead
The grace and goodness which have fled?

XII

It may not be; though oft in dreams
Perchance her image wanders back,
Fair as of old, and trailing gleams
Of glory down her earthward track;
So visiting the midnight sleep
Of eyes that only wake to weep.

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XIII

That wake to weep? to weep for her?
The freed from Earth—the housed in Heaven?
Triumphant o'er the sepulchre,—
Her sorrows past, her sins forgiven?
To weep for her? it must not be;
Our tears would blot her victory.

XIV

Nay, hymn her flight with rapturous songs;
For she, in Death's embrace, hath done
With human griefs, and fears, and wrongs;
Her fight is fought, her triumph won.
The amaranth crown is round her brow,
She dwells beside her Saviour now.

XV

Weep not, or weep as those should weep
Whose hope is stronger than their sorrow;
To-night our loved and lost ones sleep,
But Christ will bring them back to-morrow.
We shall not long lament them here,
Our home is in a brighter sphere.