DEATH OF A FATHER.
Say, shall we render thanks for him
Whose sorrows all are o'er?
Whose footsteps leave the storm-wash'd sands
Of this terrestrial shore?
Who to the garner of the bless'd,
In yon immortal land,
Was gather'd, as the ripen'd sheaf
Doth meet the reaper's hand?
Yet precious was that reverend man,
And to his arm I clung,
Till more than fourscore weary years
Their shadows o'er him flung;
Not lonely or unloved he dwelt,
Though earliest friends had fled,
For sweet affections sprang anew
When older roots were dead.
There lies the Holy Book of God,
His oracle and guide,
Where last my children read to him,
The page still open wide;
Yet where he bent to hear their voice
Is but a vacant chair,
A lone staff standing by its side:
They call—he is not there!
