Classic Poem

" DEAD is thy Daughter, trouble not the Master " —
Thus in the Ruler's ear his servants spake,
While tremblingly he urged the Saviour faster
Up the green slope from that white-margin'd Lake.

The soft wave welter'd, and the breeze came sighing
Out of the oleander thickets red;
He only heard a breath that gasp'd in dying,
Or " Trouble not the Master — she is dead. "

Trouble Him not. Ah! are these words beseeming
The desolation of that awful day,
When love's vain fancies, hope's delusive dreaming
Are over — and the life has fled for aye?

We need Him most when the dear eyes are closing,
When on the cheek the shadow lieth strong,
When the soft lines are set in that reposing
That never mother cradled with a song.

Then most we need the gentle Human feeling
That throbs with all our sorrows and our fears;
We need the love Divine its light revealing
In short bright flashes through a mist of tears;

We need the voice that even while it weepeth
Yet hath a solemn undertone that saith —
Weep not, thy darling is not dead, but sleepeth;
Only believe, for I have conquer'd death;

We need the assurances of Resurrection,
Not the life here, 'mid pain, and sin, and woe,
But ever in the fulness of perfection
To walk with Him in robes as white as snow.

When in our nursery garden falls a blossom,
And as we kiss the hand and fold the feet,
We cannot see the lamb in Abraham's bosom,
Nor hear the footfall in the golden street.

When all is silent — neither moan nor cheering,
The hush of hope, the end of all our cares —
All but that harp above, beyond our hearing,
Then most we need to trouble Him with prayers.

Did He not enter in when that cold sleeper
Lay still, with pulseless heart and leaden eyes,
Put calmly forth each loud tumultuous weeper,
And take her by the hand and bid her rise?

Come to us, Saviour! in our lone dejection,
Speak calmly to our wild and passionate grief,
Bring us the hopes and thoughts of Resurrection,
Bring us the comfort of a true Belief.

Come! with that Human Voice that breaks in weeping,
Come! with that awful Tenderness Divine,
Come! tell us that they are not dead but sleeping,
But gone before to Thee, for they are Thine.