Classic Poem

A year to-day! swift as the blast
That clears the mountain's clouded brow,
My memory cancels all the past,
From that dark morning, until now.

That morning, when a sharp surprise
Pierced through our souls, and side by side,
With sinking hearts and aching eyes,
We watched our darling as he died.

As fair as now, the August sun
Rose on our grief, and mocked our woe;
Ah! when our night was just begun,
How cruel seemed the morning's glow!

How could he die? so bright, so fair;
More fair and bright than words can say;
His heart as open as the air,
His face as sunny as the day;

His smile, that scattered light around,
His winning ways,—our joy, our hope,—
The promise of his love, that crowned
For us, with flowers, life's brimming cup.

Vain was our anguish, vain our prayers,
We could not stay his fleeting breath;
The bitter draught we drank was theirs.
Who struggle with the victor, Death.

One parting pang, but one, and thus,
Upward, amidst the cherubim,
He rose to Heaven; but, for us,
The light of life went out with him.

And still we watched him, through the hours,
The long, long hours, of that sad day;
We decked his little bier with flowers,
Sweet flowers, and he more sweet than they.

He seemed no more of time or earth,
But a bright being, half divine;
That quiet place of childish mirth,
Transfigured to a holy shrine.

How silently, through all the room,
The gradual twilight shadows crept;
Through twilight shade and midnight gloom,
More silent yet than they, he slept.

Gently we bore him to his grave,
And there, with words of love and trust,
Back to our Mother Earth we gave
Our precious darling,—dust to dust.

Sown in corruption, sown in tears,
How fair a harvest yet shall rise,
To crown our faith and shame our fears,
From this cold grave to those warm skies!

Home, dearest, to thy heart, the ark,
For me, in all the storms of fate;
That happy home,—how cold, how dark!
That heart of thine,—how desolate!

And yet one tenderest voice we knew,
Filled with the love that never errs,
One warmest, Mother's heart that drew
Our stricken spirits close to hers.

Where is that Mother's voice? that deep,
Pure love that solaced all our way?
Ah! fresher tears than those we weep
For him, are in our eyes to-day.

To-day, the breath of this calm noon
Circles her grave; we can but say,
“How much she loved him, and how soon
Her footsteps followed his away!”

They walk together, and the blest
Eternal sunlight now they share;
There, in our Father's house, they rest,—
Our treasures,—let our hearts be there!