Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/I am Dying

I am Dying.

Raise my pillow, husband dearest;
Taint and fainter comes my breath,
And these shadows stealing slowly,
Must, I know, be those of death.

Sit down close beside me, darling;
Let me clasp your warm, strong hand—
Yours, that ever has sustained me,
To the borders of this land.

For your God and mine—our Father—
Thence shall ever lead me on,
Where, upon a throne eternal,
Sits his loved and only Son.

I've had visions, and been dreaming
O'er the past of joy and pain;
Year by year I've wandered backward,
Till I was a child again—

Dreamed of girlhood, and the moment
When I stood your wife and bride—
How my heart thrilled with love's triumph
In that hour of woman's pride!

Dreamed of thee—and all the earth-cords
Firmly twined about my heart—
Oh, the bitter burning anguish
When I knew that we must part!

It has passed, and God has promised
All thy footsteps to attend;
He, that's more than friend or brother,
He'll be with you to the end.

There's no shadow o'er the portals
Leading to my heavenly home;
Christ hath promised life immortal
And 'tis He that bids me come,

When life's trials wait around thee,
And its chilling billows swell,
Thou'lt thank heaven that I am spared them,
Thou'lt then feel that "all is well."

Bring our boys unto my bedside;
My last blessing let them keep—
But they're sleeping; do not wake them—
They'll learn soon enough to weep.

Tell them often of their mother,
Kiss them for me when they wake;
Lead them gently in the pathway;
Love them doubly for my sake.

Clasp my hand still closer, darling,
This, the last night of my life;
For to-morrow I shall never
Answer when you call me "wife."

Fare thee well, my noble husband;
Faint not 'neath this chastening rod;
Throw your strong arm round our children;
Keep them close to thee—and God.