[The Old Fashion.]
“The old, old fashion,—Death! Oh, thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of Immortality!”
—Dickens.
Despite all human passion,
And all that we can do,—
There is an old, old fashion
That comes to me and you.
It has come to me so often
That I know its meaning well,
Nothing its pain can soften
Nothing its power can quell.
When the battle-field was silent,
Gone to their final rest,
Dead in their last encampment
Lay the ones I loved the best.
And then, when my heart was lightest,
It came with a snake-like tread,
And darkened the day that was brightest,
Then left me with my dead.
It came in the wild March weather
With bluster of storm and sleet,
And stilled in our home forever
The patter of boyish feet.
And then,—God pity my treason,
When life again had smiled,
It came in the holiday season
And took from me my child.
“Give thanks for the old, old fashion,”
No, that can never be.
Where is the Divine compassion
That God has shown to me?
Fling wide each shining portal,—
Let me—a sinner through,—
Thank God for the immortal
Is all that I can do.
No prayer of love or passion
Can give my dead to me,
But I bless the old, old fashion,
Of immortality.
[My Baby and the Rose.]
A rose tree grew by the garden wall,
And its highest blossom was just as tall
As my baby’s curly head;
A lovely, fragrant, perfect rose,—
But sweeter from head to dimpled toes,
Was the baby I fondly led.
Now summer is over and winter gone,
And the winds of March are whistling on
Where the rose its petals shed;
No trace of rose perfumed and rare,
No baby face as seraph fair,
My baby sweet is dead.