He is Gone
One that we love has gone
From the dear old home to-day,
Into the world alone:
May God direct his way!
Gone to life's busy marts,
Never again to find
The love of truer hearts
Than those he leaves behind;
Never again to see
The light of childhood's joy,
Never again to be
A merry-hearted boy.
Gone to the din and strife,
Dreaming the dreams of youth;
Gone to the battle of life,
Bearing the shield of truth.
Gone on a passing wave,
In manhood's morning prime,
Gifted, determined, brave,
A-down the stream of time;
With noble aims in view,
A strong and steady hand,
A soul to dare and do
Whatever he has planned.
Our Father, send, we pray,
An angel guide with him.
To teach his feet the way
When it grows rough and dim.
And with the toil and care,
Uncertain hopes and fears,
Send sunshine here and there
Along his coming years.
His chamber, bright of old,
Is strangely still and lone;
Its light is drear and cold,
Its singing-bird has flown.
We miss a pleasant word,
A snatch of some old tune,
A face by hearth and board
That brought the light of June.
Darker the twilight falls
To find the echoes dead
That once along the halls
Loved to repeat his tread.
But where the dear ones meet,
When light without grows dim,
We keep a vacant seat
And welcome warm for him.
From the dear old home to-day,
Into the world alone:
May God direct his way!
Gone to life's busy marts,
Never again to find
The love of truer hearts
Than those he leaves behind;
Never again to see
The light of childhood's joy,
Never again to be
A merry-hearted boy.
Gone to the din and strife,
Dreaming the dreams of youth;
Gone to the battle of life,
Bearing the shield of truth.
Gone on a passing wave,
In manhood's morning prime,
Gifted, determined, brave,
A-down the stream of time;
With noble aims in view,
A strong and steady hand,
A soul to dare and do
Whatever he has planned.
Our Father, send, we pray,
An angel guide with him.
To teach his feet the way
When it grows rough and dim.
And with the toil and care,
Uncertain hopes and fears,
Send sunshine here and there
Along his coming years.
His chamber, bright of old,
Is strangely still and lone;
Its light is drear and cold,
Its singing-bird has flown.
We miss a pleasant word,
A snatch of some old tune,
A face by hearth and board
That brought the light of June.
Darker the twilight falls
To find the echoes dead
That once along the halls
Loved to repeat his tread.
But where the dear ones meet,
When light without grows dim,
We keep a vacant seat
And welcome warm for him.
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