I CALL his name, but the kindly voice, Which so often has made my soul rejoice, Is silent and hushed for ever; I have looked my last on his peaceful form, Sheltered and safe from life's fitful storm, Yet 'tis hard from a friend to sever. He has passed away. It was not Death, But a pitying angel stole his breath, And bore it away to Heaven; The great warm heart that is now so still, Once battling bravely with trouble and ill, Is but freed from its earthly leaven. They say he is dead; but I know he lives, A true stanch friend, and a generous foe, But when spring-blossoms were bursting bright,' He left the darkness, and in the light Flew forth to a happier morrow. Then should I regret, and my loss bewail, THE morning sky is flecked with cloud. Which casts a shadow like a shroud Above the dawning day; And gusts of wind blow fresh and free, The old farm-house beside the stream Save where some passing sunbeam's gleam And from the porch where dead leaves twine, Her trembling voice bewails her fate, The evening air is full of storm, But by the wood-fire flickering warm, For one beside her-seated nigh Has question asked, and won reply. |