Classic Poem

A ROBIN at our door:
The first dry leaves fall sadly on the ground;
Autumn comes slowly down the fading moor,
His brow with berries bound.

Harvest to cheer the eyes,
On sunny slope, and fair rejoicing glen;
Glad idyls, brimm'd with thankfulness, arise,
From the full hearts of men.

At such a time came Death,
And call'd the watcher to the resting-land;
Whose vales of greenness, by the eye of faith,
Through tears she often scann'd.

She loved her Saviour's name,
And saw His glory in the simplest flower;
And heard His voice, as seasons went and came,
In Nature's breezy bower.

All praise she gave to Thee,
And power, and wisdom, O Thou precious Love;
Whose blood was shed to raise from misery,
And lift mankind above.

Love-deeds were hers to do,
Where sickness pined, and poverty was strong:
And with her sacred harp, she walk'd into
The land of holy song.

She prized the poet's page,
And hung with rapture o'er the solemn lyre,
Swept by the fingers of the ancient sage,
Or the more modern choir.

Even my simple lute
Had power to please her, when the shadows fell,
And Eve stole onward, with her sober suite,
Closing the floweret's bell.

No thought was in my breast
A few moons since, when in the fading light
I sat within her home, a welcome guest,
That I her dirge should write.

Yet so it is. Replete
With gifts and graces has she pass'd away;
Leaving a blessing in her " Glimpses " sweet,
To live for many a day.