Classic Poem

OD AUGHTER dear, my darling child,
Prop of my mortal pilgrimage,
Thou who hast care and pain beguiled,
And wreathed with Spring my wintry age,—
Through thee a second prospect opes
Of life, when but to live is glee,
And jocund joys, and youthful hopes,
Come thronging to my heart through thee.

Backward thou lead'st me to the bowers
Where love and youth their transports gave;
While forward still thou strewest flowers,
And bidst me live beyond the grave
For still my blood in thee shall flow,
Perhaps to warm a distant line,
Thy face my lineaments shall show,
And e'en my thoughts survive in thine.

Yes, Daughter, when this tongue is mute—
This heart is dust—these eyes are closed,
And thou art singing to thy lute
Some stanza by thy sire composed,
To friends around thou mayst impart
A thought of him who wrote the lays,
And from the grave my form shall start,
Embodied forth to fancy's gaze.

Then to their memories will throng
Scenes shared with him who lies in earth,
The cheerful page, the lively song,
The woodland walk, or festive mirth;
Then may they heave the pensive sigh
That friendship seeks not to control,
And from the fix'd and thoughtful eye
The half unconscious tears may roll:—

Such now bedew my cheek—but mine
Are drops of gratitude and love,
That mingle human with divine—
The gift below, its source above—
How exquisitely dear thou art
Can only be by tears express'd,
And the fond thrillings of my heart
While thus I clasp thee to my breast.