My Father

Sacred the hour when thou, my sainted father,
Wast of thy worn-out, sinking clay undressed,
Softly, by his pale hand, who comes to gather
Time's weary pilgrims home to joy and rest.

Noiseless, and clear, and holiest of the seven,
That day when thy last earthly sun went down:
Thy Sabbath, closing here, began in heaven;
Whilst thy meek brow changed ashes for a crown.

Hush was the evening; not a zephyr swelling
Heaved the tree-blossom, or the woodbine leaves;
Silent the bird, that sang about our dwelling,
Slept where she nestled, close beneath its eaves.

Cloudless the moon and stars above were shining,
When time's last ray to thy mild eye was shed;
While death's cold touch, life's silver cord untwining,
Brought his chill night-dew on thy reverend head.

Ninety full years of pilgrimage completing,
Here didst thou linger till one Sabbath more:
'T was holy time; thy pure heart stilled its beating;
Pain, work, and warfare were forever o'er!

Meet hour for one, obedient, meek, and lowly,
Wont, by command of Heaven, the day to keep,
Called, at its evening, to the High and Holy,
Peaceful in Jesus thus to fall asleep!

Sweetly thy form, that seemed a blissful dreamer,
Told, by its features, how the spirit smiled,
Through the dark, shadowy vale, by thy Redeemer
Led to his mansion, like a little child.

Nature's full hand, that, on thy natal morning,
Clothed earth to greet thee in the flowers of May,
Brought them renewed; thy burial-spot adorning,
When fourscore years and ten had rolled away.

Now, while the robin, past the window flying,
Leads off her young, forsaking here her nest,
Constant the wild bird, where thy dust is lying,
Sings her sweet hymn, a requiem to its rest.

There has it joined the ashes of my mother,
Faithful, rewedded to its only bride;
And there thy latest-born, my younger brother,
Thy fond hearths care, sleeps closely by her side.

Yet, angel father, over Jordan's water
Is it so far, that now thou canst not see
Back to the shore, where lonely stands thy daughter,
Sprinkling its rocks and thorns with tears for thee?

Art thou so distant, visions of thy glory
May not be granted to her mortal sight;
When she so long watched o'er thy head so hoary,
Smoothing its pillow, till that mournful night?

Since here so oft, in pain, the path of duty
Thy patient feet, with steady steps, have trod,
Safe now they walk the golden streets in beauty;
And, O! thy blessed eyes, in peace, see God!