Classic Poem

When June was beautiful with flowers,
My darling passed away;
Alas! I cannot count the hours
From that unhappy day—
It seems to me a life-time now,
Since these sad eyes surveyed
The marble silence of his brow,
Beneath death's solemn shade.

I kissed it, and the icy touch
Went freezing to my heart;
And ah! I never knew how much
I loved him, till, apart
From all the rest, I softly went
And gazed upon him, dead;
And held his little hand, and bent
In voiceless woe, my head!

And prayed such prayers as fathers pray,
For solace from above—
When He, who gave, has snatched away
The very soul of love;
And took one last, long, lingering look,
That I might always trace,
Like letters graven in a book,
That fair and tender face.

A year, and more, has sadly flown
Since unto earth I gave
His precious form, and left alone
My treasure in the grave—
Alone! and oh! I heard him say,
As home I came, “my dear,
Dear father, do not go away,
And leave your Harry here!”

“My son! my son! I leave you not
Alone,” my heart replied,
“Yours is a happy, happy lot,
Thus early to have died;
You are not here, my gentle love—
Not here in this cold sod,
But, borne on pinions like a dove,
Dwell with our Father, God.”

“Our Father,”—this he strove to say,
That long and wretched night,
When in my arms he, dying, lay;
And when the morning light
Shone dimly on his fading eyes,
That oft repeated word
Would to his pallid lips arise,
And “father,” still I heard.

And now that voice I sometimes hear
When I am all alone,
And sometimes on my dreaming ear
Sounds its familiar tone;
And sometimes his beloved smile
Dawns sweetly through the gloom,
And I expect to hear the while
His footsteps through the room.

But he is vanished—nothing can
His darling self restore—
To me, a sad, heart-broken man,
He will return no more;
Yet, I shall go to him, and stand
With him in light above,
For God will lend my Harry's hand
To lead me to his love!