Her beautiful, tender presence
Is lost in thy eager embrace;
Thou kissest the dewy fragrance
From her lovely, lovely face.
And I, who was near unto her,
Have lost my all to-day—
The chill of the grave is on me,
My sky is cold and gray.
I stand without the cold portals,
And through my frozen tears
I mark the bliss that e’er crowns you.
My own poor broken years
Lie dark in a land that never
Will bloom with fruit or flowers;
Chill is the bleak wind that sweepeth
My desolate, haunted bowers.
And thou, with thy priceless treasures,
In the land of love and song,
Amid full voluptuous pleasures,
Thy years glide proudly on.
Alone, with my vast surroundings,
Shunned is my weird abode;
An outcast, with but the bitter;
Forsaken by all—but God.
GRANDSIRE.
Old and feeble, bowed and weary,
Trembling near the dreaded stream;
Night approacheth, and the sunset
Casts a last expiring beam
On the silver-headed wanderer
Waiting by the turbid tide,
List’ning for the phantom boatman
O’er the Lethean waters wide.
Yet, amid the gathering darkness,
And the chill of coming night,
He croons a song that reaches heaven,
E’en in trusting and delight.
And he seems to catch a murmur,
Wafted from the other shore,
Of sweet-voiced friends that are awaiting
Where the night comes nevermore.
Poor old grandsire, patient ever,
Thou hast known neglect and care,
And hast felt the dreary heartache,
Ingratitude and dark despair.
But thou ’st ever been uplifted
And sustained by One who knew
All the sorrow man is heir to,
And to man’s relief that flew.
Oh, ye careless and forgetful!
For your own and father’s sake,
Cheer his feeble, trembling footsteps;
Do not let his old heart break.
Take his withered hand and bless him,
He hath given e’en life for you;
He will soon glide o’er the river;
God grant in peace his last adieu.