Epistle from a Father to a Child in her Grave

From Earth,—whose life-reviving April showers Hide withered grass 'neath Springtide's herald flowers, And give, in each soft wind that drives her rain, Promise of fields and forests rich again,— I write to thee, the aspect of whose face Can never change with altered time or place; Whose eyes could look on India's fiercest wars Less shrinking than the boldest son of Mars; Whose lips, more firm that Stoic's long ago, Would neither smile with joy nor blanch with woe; Whose limbs could sufferings far more firmly bear Than mightiest heroes in the storms of war; Whose frame, nor wishes good, nor shrinks from ill, Nor feels distraction's throb, nor pleasure's thrill.

I write to thee what thou wilt never read, For heed me thou wilt not, howe'er may bleed The heart that many think a worthless stone, But which oft aches for some belovéd one; Nor, if that life, mysterious, from on high, Once more gave feeling to thy stony eye, Could'st thou thy father know, or feel that he Gave life and lineaments and thoughts to thee; For when thou died'st, thy day was in its dawn, And night still struggled with Life's opening morn; The twilight star of childhood, thy young days Alone illumined, with its twinkling rays, So sweet, yet feeble, given from those dusk skies, Whose kindling, coming noontide prophesies, But tells us not that Summer's noon can shroud Our sunshine with a veil of thunder-cloud.

If, when thou freely gave the life, that ne'er To thee had given either hope or fear, But quietly had shone; nor asked if joy Thy future course should cheer, or grief annoy;

If then thoud'st seen, upon a summer sea, One, once in features, as in blood, like thee, On skies of azure blue and waters green, Melting to mist amid the summer sheen, In trouble gazing—ever hesitating 'Twixt miseries each hour new dread creating, And joys—whate'er they cost—still doubly dear, Those "troubled pleasures soon chastised by fear;" If thou had'st seen him, thou would'st ne'er believe That thou had'st yet known what it was to live!

Thine eyes could only see thy mother's breast; Thy feelings only wished on that to rest; That was thy world;—thy food and sleep it gave, And slight the change 'twixt it and childhood's grave. Thou saw'st this world like one who, prone, reposes, Upon a plain, and in a bed of roses, With nought in sight save marbled skies above, Nought heard but breezes whispering in the grove: I—thy life's source—was like a wanderer breasting Keen mountain winds, and on a summit resting, Whose rough rocks rose above the grassy mead, With sleet and north winds howling overhead, And Nature, like a map, beneath him spread; Far winding river, tree, and tower, and town, Shadow and sunlight, 'neath his gaze marked down By that mysterious hand which graves the plan Of that drear country called "The Life of Man."

If seen, men's eyes would loathing shrink from thee, And turn, perhaps, with no disgust to me; Yet thou had'st beauty, innocence, and smiles, And now hast rest from this world's woes and wiles, While I have restlessness and worrying care, So sure, thy lot is brighter, happier far.

So let it be; and though thy ears may never Hear these lines read beyond Death's darksome river, Not vainly from the borders of despair May rise a sound of joy that thou art freed from care!