Poems (Griffith)/In Memory of Mrs Adeline K. O'Brien
In Memory of Mrs. Adeline R. O'Brien,
ON VISITING HER HOUSE AFTER HER DEATH.
SHE is not here! Alas, she is not here!
Yet all still breathes and speaks of her. Her sweet
And living presence is in every thing.
The very breeze, deep-laden with the soft,
Rich perfume of her own, her much-loved flowers,
Seems murmuring with a sigh her cherished name.
Through the lone chambers of her darkened home
I wander oft, and pine to greet once more
Her beauteous form now mingling with the dust.
The shadow of deep gloom hath settled round
The holy hearth where joy was wont to ring.
The lovely Spring-time is again on earth,
Kissing the thousand wild-flowers into bloom
And fairy life; upon the rosy gale
The wild-bird's song is floating; a bright robe
Is o'er the wooded hills; and from the soft,
Green bosom of the earth, the young buds bursts
As springs the soul immortal from the tomb
Of darkness and of shadow; but the flowers
Look sad, a hue of sorrow seems to dim
Their beauty's glow, as if they missed her sweet
And gentle ministry, and wept bright tears
Of dew for their dear sister-spirit dead;
The wild-bird's music seems a wail of grief
Breathed for the loved and lost; the blessed beam
Has lost its smile, as if it sought in vain
For her fair angel-brow, on which to shed
Its answering lustre.
Yet all still breathes and speaks of her. Her sweet
And living presence is in every thing.
The very breeze, deep-laden with the soft,
Rich perfume of her own, her much-loved flowers,
Seems murmuring with a sigh her cherished name.
Through the lone chambers of her darkened home
I wander oft, and pine to greet once more
Her beauteous form now mingling with the dust.
The shadow of deep gloom hath settled round
The holy hearth where joy was wont to ring.
The lovely Spring-time is again on earth,
Kissing the thousand wild-flowers into bloom
And fairy life; upon the rosy gale
The wild-bird's song is floating; a bright robe
Is o'er the wooded hills; and from the soft,
Green bosom of the earth, the young buds bursts
As springs the soul immortal from the tomb
Of darkness and of shadow; but the flowers
Look sad, a hue of sorrow seems to dim
Their beauty's glow, as if they missed her sweet
And gentle ministry, and wept bright tears
Of dew for their dear sister-spirit dead;
The wild-bird's music seems a wail of grief
Breathed for the loved and lost; the blessed beam
Has lost its smile, as if it sought in vain
For her fair angel-brow, on which to shed
Its answering lustre.
All is lone and drear—
I gaze upon her partner's grief-bow'd form,
And mark the deepened silver of his locks,
And my heart checks its selfish sighs. Her child,
Her cherub-child, is sporting in the bloom
Of infancy, but yet her very mirth
Seems strangely sad, as if her spirit felt
That Death's stern hand had crushed her parent stem,
And thrown her as a loosened bud to float
Upon the dark and stormy waves of time,
A thing of lone and blighted life.
I gaze upon her partner's grief-bow'd form,
And mark the deepened silver of his locks,
And my heart checks its selfish sighs. Her child,
Her cherub-child, is sporting in the bloom
Of infancy, but yet her very mirth
Seems strangely sad, as if her spirit felt
That Death's stern hand had crushed her parent stem,
And thrown her as a loosened bud to float
Upon the dark and stormy waves of time,
A thing of lone and blighted life.
Dear friend,
Friend of my childhood's bright and happy years,
Where dwells thy spirit, now? I feel its power
In this calm twilight air; I catch thy tone
In the sweet cadence of this evening gale;
I see the holy beauty of thy face
In the strange beauty of yon sunset cloud;
I feel thy breath upon my cheek, as though
Thy spirit in its angel mission o'er
The darkened earth, stooped from its glorious flight
To whisper hope and comfort to my bruised
And broken spirit. Can it be? Ah yes,
O'er this lone spot thy blight and guardian wings
Are hovering, and at night thy angel-arms
Enfold again the loved of earth, and guard
From coming ills the children of thy heart
It must be so, for oh, I know that this
Blest presence is thine own. Thy spirit glides
Around me at the morning, noon, and eve,
And at the solemn midnight, and I thank
Thy God and mine, that I am not alone.
Friend of my childhood's bright and happy years,
Where dwells thy spirit, now? I feel its power
In this calm twilight air; I catch thy tone
In the sweet cadence of this evening gale;
I see the holy beauty of thy face
In the strange beauty of yon sunset cloud;
I feel thy breath upon my cheek, as though
Thy spirit in its angel mission o'er
The darkened earth, stooped from its glorious flight
To whisper hope and comfort to my bruised
And broken spirit. Can it be? Ah yes,
O'er this lone spot thy blight and guardian wings
Are hovering, and at night thy angel-arms
Enfold again the loved of earth, and guard
From coming ills the children of thy heart
It must be so, for oh, I know that this
Blest presence is thine own. Thy spirit glides
Around me at the morning, noon, and eve,
And at the solemn midnight, and I thank
Thy God and mine, that I am not alone.
Berford, April 12th, 1851.