A Little Book of Western Verse

Produced by Juliet Sutherland and Project Gutenberg
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by Eugene Field
1889
A dying mother gave to you Her child a many years ago; How in your gracious love he grew, You know, dear, patient heart, you know.
The mother's child you fostered then Salutes you now and bids you take These little children of his pen And love them for the author's sake.
To you I dedicate this book, And, as you read it line by line, Upon its faults as kindly look As you have always looked on mine.
Tardy the offering is and weak;— Yet were I happy if I knew These children had the power to speak My love and gratitude to you.
Go, little book, and if an one would speak thee ill, let him bethink him that thou art the child of one who loves thee well.
When those we love have passed away; when from our lives something has gone out; when with each successive day we miss the presence that has become a part of ourselves, and struggle against the realization that it is with us no more, we begin to live in the past and thank God for the gracious boon of memory. Few of us there are who, having advanced to middle life, have not come to look back on the travelled road of human existence in thought of those who journeyed awhile with us, a part of all our hopes and joyousness, the sharers of all our ambitions and our pleasures, whose mission has been fulfilled and who have left us with the mile-stones of years still seeming to stretch out on the path ahead. It is then that memory comes with its soothing influence, telling us of the happiness that was ours and comforting us with the ever recurring thought of the pleasures of that travelled road. For it is happiness to walk and talk with a brother for forty years, and it is happiness to know that the surety of that brother's affection, the knowledge of the greatness of his heart and the nobility of his mind, are not for one memory alone but may be publicly attested for admiration and emulation. That it has fallen to me to speak to the world of my brother as I knew him I rejoice. I do not fear that, speaking as a brother, I shall crowd the laurel wreaths upon him, for to this extent he lies in peace already honored; but if I can show him to the world, not as a poet but as a man,—if I may lead men to see more of that goodness, sweetness, and gentleness that were in him, I shall the more bless the memory that has survived.