CONSOLATION IN BEREAVEMENT.
’Tis not when we look on the dreamless dead,
And feel that the spirit forever has fled;
’Tis not when we’re called to the voiceless tomb
By the loved who were culled in their brightest bloom;
’Tis not when the grave’s last rite is o’er,
And we know they are gone to return no more;
But, oh! ’tis when Time with oblivious wing
A balm to all other hearts may bring;
When the dark, dark hours of grief are o’er,
And we join the world we can love no more,—
That world whose grief for the absent one
Passed like a cloud from an April sun;
When, amid the mirth that salutes the ear,
One tone is gone we had used to hear,
One form is missed in that happy train,
That will never exult in its sports again;
We feel that death has indeed passed o’er,
And a blank is left, to be filled no more.
But though the world and its witching smile,
That cheats the heart of its woes awhile,
Would prove in its time of deepest need
But the frail support of a broken reed,
Religion’s beam has the magic power
To chase the cloud from its darkest hour,
To turn the soul from its idols here,
And fix its hopes on a purer sphere;
Then land it safe in a port of rest,
The haven sure of a Saviour’s breast.
1828. E. P. K.
LINES
SUGGESTED BY THE CONVERSATION OF A BROTHER AND SISTER IN THE CHAMBER OF A DECEASED AND HIGHLY VALUED PARENT.
My father! Oh! I cannot dwell
On hours when we shall meet again;
I only feel, I only know
That all my prayers for thee were vain.
“Come, brother, take a last farewell;
Soon, soon they’ll bear him far away.”—
“No, sister, no,—he is not there,
I parted with him yesterday.
“Our father is in Heaven now,
Forever free from care and pain;
And, if a half-formed wish could bring
His sainted spirit back again,
“The selfish wish I would not breathe;
’Twould cloud with woe that placid brow,
Round which a seraph seems to wreathe
A crown of glory even now.
“How deep the gloom that mantled there!
How sweetly, too, ’twas all withdrawn!
Thus, ever thus, night’s darkest hour
Precedes the day’s triumphant dawn.
“Oh! while he lingered, struggling still
With pain and anguish and despair,
The sting of death was felt indeed,
And then I wearied Heaven with prayer.
“But when the unfettered spirit fled
From earth and earthly cares away,
I joyed to think how blest would be
Its entrance on eternal day.
“I joyed to think that never more
That tranquil breast would throb with pain;
Hope pencilled, too, the sheltering port
Where parted spirits meet again.
“Oh! I would drain the bitter cup
To him in boundless mercy given,
A glorious Sabbath-day to win
Of never-ending rest in Heaven.
“Come, sister, let us follow him,
Though rugged was the path he trod;
’Twill lead us to the ‘saints in light,’
’Twill lead us to our father’s God.”
1828. E. P. K.