THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.
Forget them not!—though now their name
Be but a mournful sound,
Though by the hearth its utterance claim
A stillness round.
Though for their sake this earth no more
As it hath been may be,
And shadows, never mark’d before,
Brood o’er each tree;
And though their image dim the sky,
Yet, yet forget them not!
Nor, where their love and life went by,
Forsake the spot!
They have a breathing influence there,
A charm, not elsewhere found;
Sad—yet it sanctifies the air,
The stream, the ground.
Then, though the wind an alter’d tone
Through the young foliage bear,
Though every flower, of something gone
A tinge may wear;
Oh! fly it not! No fruitless grief,
Thus in their presence felt,
A record links to every leaf
There, where they dwelt.
Still trace the path which knew their tread,
Still tend their garden-bower,
Still commune with the holy dead
In each lone hour!
The holy dead!—oh! bless’d we are,
That we may call them so,
And to their image look afar
Through all our woe!
Bless’d, that the things they loved on earth
As relics we may hold,
That wake sweet thoughts of parted worth
By springs untold!
Bless’d, that a deep and chastening power
Thus o’er our souls is given,
If but to bird, or song, or flower,
Yet all for heaven!