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 pass'd, And eager to record one favoring 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 armory 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 first Grief came into my bosom -- by that thrill Of agony, which from the open 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, Enkindled wilder gaiety 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. His fourscore years Sat lightly on him -- for his heart was glad, Even to its latest pulse, with that fond love, Home-nurtur'd and reciprocal, which girds And garners up, in sorrow and in joy. -- I was not with the weepers -- when the hearse Stood all expectant at his pleasant door, And other voices from his pulpit said That he was not: -- but yet the requiem sigh Of that sad organ, in its sable robe, Made melancholy music in 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 unassur'd -- yet gathering strength From the blest promise of Jehovah's aid Unto the early seeker. When again 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 shall 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 honor'd tomb. |