Poems (Taggart)/To her Father

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To her Father

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4563150Poems — To her FatherCynthia Taggart

TO HER FATHER, SUPPOSED TO BE DYING.^[1] 1833.

My Father! sweet thine accents fall,
And full of tender love;
These will thy suffering child recall,
When thou art blest above.

Thou didst the words of joy and peace
With faith and love combine,
That taught my soul from earth to cease,
And seek to follow thine.

Oh! shall no more my listening ear
Catch that celestial voice;
No more thy heavenly converse hear,
That bade my soul rejoice!

Those words of kind, parental care,
Which soothed my bed of pain;
That look of sympathy, oh! ne'er
Shall I behold again!

Where shall thy suffering child repair,
To seek protection now?
Since Death's cold hand, so often near,
Has touched thine honored brow.

Where shall this helpless, writhing form
A kind supporter find?
And where, oh! where, midst sorrow's storm,
Shall rest this struggling mind?

Who will, like thee, direct the prayer
With strong desire to heaven;
And grace unto thy children bear,
To fervent pleadings given?

O blessed parent, guide, and friend!
Where shall my soul repose?
Our sky is dark; what ills attend!
The world no succour shows.

Where?—but alas! on earth how vain
To seek a cure for grief:
Yet One the helpless will sustain;
Thy God will give relief

Yes, He to whom thy soul shall rise,
And be for ever blest,
Will look in pity from the skies,
And give thy children rest^[2]

↑ She did not see him for four weeks previous to his death.
↑ [He died on the 10th of November, 1833; and it is but a just tribute to the memory of a good man, to say, that the spot where he lived more than thirty years, and the grave in which he lies buried, are consecrated in the affections of his family and of his neighbours. Before he went to his rest, he had purchased, with the small remnant of his property, a cottage about four miles from Newport, and nearly as far from his former residence by the sea-side. Those who approach this home of suffering will be surprised and pleased by the air of neatness, and even of cheerfulness, which pervades the humble tenement. Here they may behold one of the brightest triumphs of piety over the sorrows so thickly strewn in the vale of tears, through which this gifted female has been called to pass. They will ascend the narrow staircase that leads to Cynthia's quiet chamber. There they will find a being, whose sufferings words cannot describe, looking to her God calmly, and with a resignation which seems almost to have imparted its peaceful influence to the silent air that surrounds the lowly dwelling. It was in this chamber that she lay helpless, while those of the household, whose health and reason permitted, were assembled around the bed-side of the dying man, to receive his last farewell. Again and again she had heard the sad intelligence, that her father, who had for a long period of years so truly sympathized with her sufferings, and who had been almost alone in discerning the powers of that mind in whose cultivation he was chiefly instrumental, was now passing from the earth, and she would behold him no more, not even in the dying hour. Again he was restored, and probably in such intervals of affliction and hope these touching lines were composed. Four weeks she lay without seeing that venerable countenance, though from below she heard the sound of the precious words, which all who knew him will treasure up as the last legacy of an aged Christian in the immediate prospect of eternal bliss. If we place ourselves in her situation, we shall not wonder that, as her father lay dead in the house, it was a consolation to her deeply wounded spirit to dictate these lines, at a sister's request, to a friend who was seeking to pour into the hearts of the mourning family the balm of consolation. Nor shall we be surprised, that now, when the bright returning June has clothed the earth afresh in its garments of green, she often gazes from the window at the head of her couch, over the orchard, where but lately she saw him walking beneath the trees, or, supported by his daughters, feebly attempting to select the spot for his burial. And when we look upon the unmarked mound in the corner of that orchard, we shall understand why the daughter dropped a tear on the flower that was brought to her, the first that had bloomed on her father's grave.—June 2st, 1834.]

[1] She did not see him for four weeks previous to his death.

[p147-2] [He died on the 10th of November, 1833; and it is but a just tribute to the memory of a good man, to say, that the spot where he lived more than thirty years, and the grave in which he lies buried, are consecrated in the affections of his family and of his neighbours. Before he went to his rest, he had purchased, with the small remnant of his property, a cottage about four miles from Newport, and nearly as far from his former residence by the sea-side. Those who approach this home of suffering will be surprised and pleased by the air of neatness, and even of cheerfulness, which pervades the humble tenement. Here they may behold one of the brightest triumphs of piety over the sorrows so thickly strewn in the vale of tears, through which this gifted female has been called to pass. They will ascend the narrow staircase that leads to Cynthia's quiet chamber. There they will find a being, whose sufferings words cannot describe, looking to her God calmly, and with a resignation which seems almost to have imparted its peaceful influence to the silent air that surrounds the lowly dwelling. It was in this chamber that she lay helpless, while those of the household, whose health and reason permitted, were assembled around the bed-side of the dying man, to receive his last farewell. Again and again she had heard the sad intelligence, that her father, who had for a long period of years so truly sympathized with her sufferings, and who had been almost alone in discerning the powers of that mind in whose cultivation he was chiefly instrumental, was now passing from the earth, and she would behold him no more, not even in the dying hour. Again he was restored, and probably in such intervals of affliction and hope these touching lines were composed. Four weeks she lay without seeing that venerable countenance, though from below she heard the sound of the precious words, which all who knew him will treasure up as the last legacy of an aged Christian in the immediate prospect of eternal bliss. If we place ourselves in her situation, we shall not wonder that, as her father lay dead in the house, it was a consolation to her deeply wounded spirit to dictate these lines, at a sister's request, to a friend who was seeking to pour into the hearts of the mourning family the balm of consolation. Nor shall we be surprised, that now, when the bright returning June has clothed the earth afresh in its garments of green, she often gazes from the window at the head of her couch, over the orchard, where but lately she saw him walking beneath the trees, or, supported by his daughters, feebly attempting to select the spot for his burial. And when we look upon the unmarked mound in the corner of that orchard, we shall understand why the daughter dropped a tear on the flower that was brought to her, the first that had bloomed on her father's grave.—June 2st, 1834.]

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