There falls a felt silence:—the note of a bird,
A tremulous twitter,—is all that is heard;
The circle has knelt by the holly-bush there,—
And listen,—there comes the low breathing of prayer.
"Father! fold thine arms of pity
Round us as we lowly bow;
Never have we kneeled before Thee
With such burden'd hearts as now!
Joy has been our constant portion,
And if ill must now befall,
With a filial acquiescence,
We would thank thee for it all.
In the path of present duty,
With Thy hand to lean upon,
Questioning not the hidden future,
May we walk serenely on.
For this holy, happy home-love,
Purest bliss that crowns my life,—
For these tender, trusting children,—
For this fondest, faithful wife,—
Here I pour my full thanksgiving;
And, when heart is torn from heart,
Be our sweetest tryst-word, 'Mizpah,'—
Watch betwixt us while we part!
And if never round this altar,
We should kneel as heretofore,—
If these arms in benediction
Fold my precious ones no more,—
Thou, who in her direst anguish,
Sooth'dst thy mother's lonely lot,
In thy still unchanged compassion,
Son of Man! forsake them not!"
The little ones each he has caught to his breast,
And clasped them, and kissed them with fervent caress;
Then wordless and tearless, with hearts running o'er,
They part who have never been parted before:
He springs to his saddle,—the rein is drawn tight,—
And Beechenbrook Cottage is lost to his sight.