Come hither, friend! My voice grows thin and weak—
My limbs are feeble, and I feel that Death
Will soon achieve his conquest. Look not sad!
The being best beloved has gone before—
Why should _I_ tarry here? An angel form
Beckons me on. Amid my morning dreams,
I hear _her_ voice and see her starry eyes!
That voice so full of woman tenderness;
Those eyes that mirrored an unsullied soul!
Then look not sad! My peace is made with God,
And in the hope, which is the dawn of Heaven—
The Christian’s hope—I will a little hence
On my mysterious journey. Soon—how soon!—
The truth will break upon me! The dim stars,
Which now, this mellow night, like sands of gold,
Glitter amid the distance—it may be
That I may pass their confines on my course;
That peopled worlds may greet my spirit’s gaze!
Look, gentle friend, how brightly do they shine!
How like to living things! How beautiful!
How more than wonderful the mighty hand
That placed them there, all radiant with light!
Oh, God! in whose high presence soon my soul
Will stand uncovered, what a worm am I
Amid thy wonders vast and infinite!
And yet I feel th’ immortal burns within—
The quenchless light of an eternal soul!
Yes! as the frame decays; as this frail dust
Sinks to its native earth, the spirit’s wings
Unfold, and all within seems eager for the flight!
My voice is almost lost. Friend!—faithful friend,
Long tried and well beloved—before I leave
This summer scene of earth, yon fields and flowers—
Alas! like youth and life, they soon will fade—
I have a boon to crave. My boy, my only boy,
Will soon be fatherless! Forgive this tear;
It is among the last.
Hither, my child!
There lives his mother’s image—her soft eyes,
So large and full and dove-like; her brown hair,
So rich and silken, and her cheek of rose!
Oh! what a fate was hers! But yesterday,
All youth and hope and beauty; and to-day,
A banquet for the cold and creeping worm!
But far above the grave her spirit dwells,
Among the white-robed circles of the blest:
In that bright clime where Faith and Fancy soar,
And Love and Hope and Joy walk hand in hand.
But to the boon.
I would not, when my dust
Lies still and cold, leave bitter memories.
I would not leave a wound in any breast,
But fain with all the world would die in peace,
Forgiving all, and asking all forgiveness.
The only legacy that I may leave
My idol boy, is a weak dream of fame:
A phantom that has cheated me of life,
And fails me now, I fear, before the grave.
And yet, how that wild dream, tempting and bright,
Has spanned my youthful life, as does the bow
The summer storm! And now, e’en while I gaze.
And feel the mortal passing slowly off,
How dust still clings to dust, and a desire
Burns at my breast, that justice may be done
My memory!—that he, in after time—
(Poor child, how little recks he of this scene!—)
May speak his father’s name with love and pride.
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