Whom, hungry, thou hast fed—uncovered, clothed
And sorrowing, comforted.
With silent course,
Unostentatious as the heaven-shed dew,
Thy bounties fell; nor didst thou scatter gifts
Or utter prayers with pharisaic zeal,
For man to note. Thy praise was with thy God.
In that domestic sphere where Nature rears
Woman's meek throne, thy worth was eminent;
Nor breathed thy goodness o'er cold, stoic hearts.
What gentleness was thine, what kind regard,
To him thou lov'dst—what dovelike tenderness
In voice and deed! Almost Disease might bear
Its lot without complaining, wert thou near,
A ministering angel.
Scarce had Spring,
Weeping its tear-dews o'er thy daughter's grave,
Return'd, ere thou wert summon'd to ascend,
Like her, to that bright host whose ceaseless harps
Hymn the Redeemer.
She with earnest hand,
When gathered like a rose 'mid perfumed flowers,
Clasp'd the firm hope of everlasting life,
And thou, in trembling, less-confiding trust,
Launch'd on the surge of Death's tempestuous flood
With the same anchor.
So ye are at rest,
Where sorrow comes not. Is there room for us
In the same haven, when the Master calls?[1]
- ↑ From a volume of poems, published in Boston in 1827.
