Classic Poem

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 favouring 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 gayety 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,
E'en to its latest pulse, with that fond love,
Home-nurtured 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 echo'd dirge
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 infant head, and lead
To the Redeemer's sacred board a guest
Timid and unassured, yet gathering strength
From the blest promise of Jehovah's aid
Unto the early seeker. When again
My native spot unfolds that pictured 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 strew
This wild-flower garland on thine honour'd tomb.