Poems (Griffith)/In Memory of my Father

by Mattie Griffith

In Memory of my Father.

DEAR father mine, thy grave is far away—
Soft, sunny skies, bend warm and lovingly
Above thy dreamless slumber, and the waves
Of a far southern stream sweep by, and bear
In their low tones a message and a sigh
From thy unhappy child.

             My father dear,
These eyes have never gazed upon thy grave,
These hands have never taught the sweet Spring-rose
To bloom on that neglected spot; but
Within my soul there is a holy flower,
A flower perennial, watered with my tears,
And kissed to bloom by the sweet beam of love—
Father, that flower is memory of thee.
Years, weary, anxious years have passed o'er earth,
And shadowed in their course young, loving hearts,
Since that bright morning when we saw thee go
Forth in the beauty of thy glorious prime,
Bearing to thy far southern home a fair
And gentle bride. Oh, father, thou didst kiss
Thy little prattler with a beaming smile,
And give her to thy mother's holy care;
But even then I heard a faint, low sigh,
Which sadly fell upon my ear and heart,
The omen of a coming agony.

 They tell me that a fair, young stranger girl,
Who knew thee not, has placed a sweet wildrose
To shed its gentle fragrance o'er thy dust.
Her pitying heart was deeply touched to look
On thy neglected sleep, and, with the pure
Sweet instinct of a daughter, she placed flowers
Upon thy lonely grave. My deep heart breathes
A blessing upon hers. Oh may no griefs
E'er fall upon her life like those which rest
So dark on mine.

          Oh father, my poor heart
Is lone and sad to-night. In agony
'Tis calling to thee in thy distant grave.
I am an orphan lone, and, when my brow
Is fevered and my heart oppressed, I fain
Would fly to thee; I would pour out my grief
Beside thy mouldering ashes; I would weep
Beside the cold grave-stone, and on the ear
Of Death would breathe a stricken daughter's woe.
My spirit calls to thine—oh come to me
In this lone hour, and let me know once more
A father's holy love. Ah, now a strange
Mysterious thrill comes o'er my soul; I feel
A spirit's presence father, is it thine!
Yes, it is thine, I see thee, and through all
The trembling fibres of my frame I feel
That hallowed kiss. Stay, blessed father, stay,
And leave me never more alone on this
Cold desert of the earth. If thou must go,
Dear father, fold thy angel-wings around
Thy child, and bear her to thy far blue home,
To rest for ever with our God and thee.

Bedford, Ky