ATTENDING A FORMER PUPIL TO THE GRAVE.
Daughter, I will not leave thee.
Thou wert wont
To sit so close beside me with thy task,
And lift thy little book, and scan my face,
Timing thy question wisely to my cares,
And thou wouldst gently put thy hand in mine
When summer-school was o'er, and strive to lead
To thine own pleasant home, bespeaking still
For me such things as unto them were dear,
Thy white-hair'd grandsire's kindness, or the walk
In the sweet plat of flowers, until I felt
That, of a pupil, I had made a friend.
I will not leave thee, now that thou must take
Thy journey to thy sepulchre. I know
How timid thou wert ever, and wouldst cling
Unto my arm when childhood's little fears
Or troubles daunted thee. But now, behold,
Thou on thy low and sable carriage lead'st
And marshall'st us the way whaere we must go,
Each for himself.
Stranger and friend sweep on
In long procession.
Daughter, I am near
In this most solemn hour. I'll stay and hear
