Classic Poem

THOU , God on high, art love,
And do'st, by love's attraction, draw our souls,
Flitting in dusky circuit twixt the poles,
Up to their home above.

And, though we bear the weight
Of mortal nature, yet the loved and free
We follow with strong pinion back to thee
And look in at thy gate.

Lost one! In sleep we rise
Into thy track and thy receding light
Pursue, till, pausing at the portal bright,
Thou gazest in our eyes.

“Be comforted,” that mild,
Full heart-glance said; “of human love the link
Stretches o'er death abyss, from brink to brink,
This angel is your child.”

Then, with her brow still bent
On ours, she slowly lessened into bliss;
As if to show she bore our mortal kiss.
Into the firmament.

Nor was our gaze forbid
To watch her still; for kneeling angels, crowned,
Having kissed her, parted where they zoned her round,
That she might not be hid.

As, after doubtful notes
That Music wakes ere she decides her lay,
On sudden up some dear frequented way
Of heavenly sound she floats,

And each awaiting heart
Thrills to remembered joy; so, from the grace
And glory mantling those bright hosts, did start
Full many a well-known face.

Thy father's father, sweet,
She at whose knees thy mother lisped her prayer,
Bent their swift pinions from the throne to greet
Thy soul and guide thee there.

And some who left the way
Of life, while green, were there; to whom 'twas given
To sink on its soft pastures after play,
To sleep—and wake in heaven.

And one not knit by blood,
Save souls have kinship, neared thee. In her eyes
Dwelt love so holy while on earth she stood,
They changed not for the skies.

Close, closer, form divine!
Here was thy life high, gracious, undefiled;
The love that lit the parent heart was thine,
Now shine upon the child.

They stoop to us; they pour
Their glances down, each glance too pure a ray
For our weak eyes; the drooped lids fringe them o'er
And all dissolves away.

Oh, then, our thankful bliss
Burst forth, and the glad souls that people dreams
Fled from the awakening cry! Our world was this,
Our light earth's common beams;

They slant upon the ground
Where, prone and torn, her wind-snapped dahlia lay;
Where still the notes of Childhood's chorus sound,
Though one note is away.

Morn breaks its golden surge
Against the walls whence, with presaging eyes
She watched the spire-crowned hills; morn rounds the verge
Of shadow where she lies.

The night-hushed din of life
Thickens and swells; but, from that better sphere
Our sleep unveiled, there flows, through all the strife
A voice intact and clear;—

“Love's very grief is gain;
Thereby earth holier grows and heaven is nigher;
Souls that their idols may not here detain,
Will follow and aspire.

“Potent is Sorrow's breath
To quench Wrath's fever—check the rebel Will;
Gaunt, starved Ambition in its path sees Death,
And the wild mien is still,

“Sense has no charm or wile
To lure the heart; it asks not if the road
Have shades to screen or odours to beguile;
But—does it lead to God?

“Love, purity, repose,
Faith cherished, duty done and wrong forgiven—
Be these the garland and the staff of those
Who have a child in heaven.”