Thy influence is with me still,
My own beloved child;
For thy sake hath my spirit grown
Calm—hopeful—strong, yet mild.
I look to heaven as to thy home,
And feel that there must be—
So deep the tie that draws me there—
Some lowly place for me.
The faith that springeth from the tomb
Nor mortal fears nor doubts consume.
I think upon thy early years
Not as I used to think,
With bitterness and vain regret,
And hopes that sprang to shrink,
But with a solemn fond belief
That we shall meet again:
Thy piety—thy sweet content—
Could never be in vain;
Taken alike wert thou, and given,
To win thy kindred unto heaven.
It was the lovely autumn time
When hither thou wert brought;
Not for the lovely scenes around,
But for thy health we sought.
For there was in thy large blue eyes
Too beautiful a light,
And on thy young transparent cheek
The rose was over-bright;
And the clear temples showed too plain
The branching of each azure vein.
Too soon we saw it was in vain
That we had brought thee here:
For every day thou weft more weak,
And every day more dear.
Thy hand—how white and small that hand!—
Could scarcely hold the flowers
Which yet were brought thee, with the dew
Of early morning hours.
I seem to look upon them now—
Yet, where are they?—and where art thou?—
50
