Classic Poem

A BARD stood drooping o'er the grave
Where his lost daughter slept,
Where nothing broke the stillness, save
The breeze that round him crept;
And as he plucked the weeds away
That grew above her slumbering clay,
He neither spoke nor wept;
But then he could not all disguise
The sadness looking from his eyes.

Indeed, it was a fitting tomb
For one so young and fair,
Where flowers, as emblems of her bloom,
Scented the summer air
The primrose told her simple youth,
The violet her modest truth; —
Thus had a father's care
Brought the sweet children of the wild,
To deck the head-stone of his child.

Around that spot of hallowed rest
Grew many a solemn tree,
Where many a wild bird built its nest,
And sung with constant glee;
And hills upreared their mighty forms
Through Summer's light and Winter's storms;
And streams ran fresh and free,
Through many a green and silent vale,
Kept pure by heaven's untainted gale.

I looked upon the furrowed face
Of that heart-breaking sire,
Where I, methought, could plainly trace
The spirit's fading fire;
For he had stemmed the tide of years
In care, captivity, and tears;
And yet he touched the lyre
With cunning and unfailing hand,
For freedom in his native land.

But now the darling child he had,
The last and only one,
Which always made his spirit glad,
From earth to heaven had gone,
And left him in his hoary age
To finish life's sad pilgrimage;
And, as he travelled on,
To soothe the sorrows of his mate,
And brood upon his lonely fate.

How oft together did they climb
The steep of Tandle hill,
And pause to pass the pleasant time
Beside the mountain rill;
Then he would read some cherished book
Within some leafy forest nook,
All cool, and green, and still:
Or homeward as they went along,
Sing of his own some artless song.

Such were the well-remembered themes
That told him of the past,
And well might these recurring dreams
Some shade of sadness cast:
Those hearts whose strong affections cling
Too closely round some blessed thing,
Too often bleed at last,
When death comes near the stricken heart,
To tear its dearest ties apart.

True Poet! touch thy harp again,
As was thy wont of yore;
Its voice will charm the sting of pain,
As it hath done before:
Husband, subdue a mother's sorrow, —
Father, expect a brighter morrow,
And nurse thy grief no more;
Man, bow thee to the chastening rod,
And put thy holiest trust in God!