Classic Poem

Oh , yes, I feel I shall go to Him
When my heart is cold and my eye is dim,
And the soul that bows in its grief alone,
On a Seraph's wing to its rest has flown.

They would bring the harp with its sounds of joy,
To drown the thought of my sainted boy,
But his gentle form is upon my brain,
Though I list as erst to the minstrel strain.

The plant has gone from Judaea's vine,
As around its trunk it began to twine;
The gem is dark on my kingly brow,
And the dust of grief is upon me now.

How deep my woe for the babe who died,
But he lingers yet by his parent's side,
For with morning's gush and with day's decline,
He seems to come to this heart of mine.

But, anguish'd spirit, thy murmurs still,
Thy babe has gone to a sunlit hill,
Life's cup, with cares to its utmost brim,
Death's shadowy angel has turn'd from him .

He cannot come from his deep repose,
To check the tear which unbidden flows,
He cannot come with his soft, blue eye,
Nor his voice of entrancing melody.

But, oh, I know I shall go to Him,
When my heart is cold and my eye is dim,
And the soul that bows in its grief alone,
On a Seraph's wing to its rest has flown.