On My Father's Tomb

No splendid stone adorns this honored dust,
Or points me where my father's relics lie;
No beauteous urn, or nicely sculptured bust,
Recalls his once-loved image to my eye.

But memory still his features can impart,
When by his evening fire he sweetly smiled,
Or when, with serious look and swelling heart,
He kindly checked the wanderings of his child.

Ah! there are those, who gratefully can tell
How oft his skill detained the parting breath,
Composed the tortured bosom's throbbing swell,
And smoothed to soft repose the bed of death, —

Can tell how oft he eased the racking pain,
How oft he cooled the fever's burning glow,
And bade fair health revisit once again
The hapless child of sickness and of woe.

All these can speak, — although no splendid tomb
Recount his virtues or adorn his grave,
No yew-trees weave their dark, funereal gloom
Nor bending willows o'er his relics wave.
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