Poems (McDonald)/In Memory of Henry S. Craig
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The fair earth looketh dim—the golden sun
Gleams not, methinks, so brightly as of yore,
And each familiar thing he looks upon,
With a strange gloom is darkly shadowed o'er:
But nature is not changedȔunto our eyes
Alone she seemeth sad, for thou art gone,
Whose smile was sunshine for our wintry skies,
Whose words were music, and whose gentle tone
Of love or kindness, came upon the ear
Like the pure gushing of a fountain clear.
IN MEMORY OF HENRY S. CRAIG[1]
The fair earth looketh dim—the golden sun
Gleams not, methinks, so brightly as of yore,
And each familiar thing he looks upon,
With a strange gloom is darkly shadowed o'er:
But nature is not changedȔunto our eyes
Alone she seemeth sad, for thou art gone,
Whose smile was sunshine for our wintry skies,
Whose words were music, and whose gentle tone
Of love or kindness, came upon the ear
Like the pure gushing of a fountain clear.
Life was all bright before thee—who could deem
It's fairy promises would fade so soon?
Fond hopes have perished like the rainbow's gleam—
A sun obscured at its high hour of noon:
Age had not stamped his furrows on thy brow,
Nor strewed his silvery threads in thy dark hair:
Still wore thy manly cheek its wonted glow,
Unwrinkled by the withering touch of care:
Thine eye yet flashed with all the fire of youth,
And on thy lip dwelt stern, unbending truth.
It's fairy promises would fade so soon?
Fond hopes have perished like the rainbow's gleam—
A sun obscured at its high hour of noon:
Age had not stamped his furrows on thy brow,
Nor strewed his silvery threads in thy dark hair:
Still wore thy manly cheek its wonted glow,
Unwrinkled by the withering touch of care:
Thine eye yet flashed with all the fire of youth,
And on thy lip dwelt stern, unbending truth.
Oh! there is darkness o'er thy home, and tears,
Deep, burning tears of heart-felt agony,
As memory brings again thine earlier years,
Oh! loved and lost one, still are shed for thee:
Thy mother for her first-born bows in dust,
Her stay in widowhood, her pride and joy;
Recalls thy childhood's time of love and trust,
And wails thy manhood's glory fall'n for ay:
And thy young sisters, who will guard as thou,
Their orphan heads from every evil now?
Deep, burning tears of heart-felt agony,
As memory brings again thine earlier years,
Oh! loved and lost one, still are shed for thee:
Thy mother for her first-born bows in dust,
Her stay in widowhood, her pride and joy;
Recalls thy childhood's time of love and trust,
And wails thy manhood's glory fall'n for ay:
And thy young sisters, who will guard as thou,
Their orphan heads from every evil now?
But there is one who in her girlhood's hour,
Gave up her sweet affections unto thee,
How she lies smitten like a withered flower,
When autumn winds have swept its native tree:
Her idol in the dust hath fallen low—
And the white wreath that twined amid her hair,
When at thy side a few short months ago
She stood a happy bride, so young, so fair,—
Is changed, for what? Alas! that pallid brow,
Wears the dark shrouding of the widowed now.
Gave up her sweet affections unto thee,
How she lies smitten like a withered flower,
When autumn winds have swept its native tree:
Her idol in the dust hath fallen low—
And the white wreath that twined amid her hair,
When at thy side a few short months ago
She stood a happy bride, so young, so fair,—
Is changed, for what? Alas! that pallid brow,
Wears the dark shrouding of the widowed now.
Oh! who shall speak her anguish! who may tell
The misery that clouds her sunniest years!
Who shall e'er fathom pure affections well,
Or dry the fountain of her bitter tears!
What unto her are spring's first fragrant flowers,
Or all the charms of summer's blushing day?
Will she not read the past, in such bright hours,
And hear thy voice in every wind's soft play?
Will not the smiling earth, the balmy air,
Whisper of moments blessed, when thou wert there?
The misery that clouds her sunniest years!
Who shall e'er fathom pure affections well,
Or dry the fountain of her bitter tears!
What unto her are spring's first fragrant flowers,
Or all the charms of summer's blushing day?
Will she not read the past, in such bright hours,
And hear thy voice in every wind's soft play?
Will not the smiling earth, the balmy air,
Whisper of moments blessed, when thou wert there?
Yes, they will miss thee, unto whom belong
The ever dear remembrance of thy worth—
They will lament thee, when the heartless throng
Have quite forgotten thou wert once of earth;
At morning's prime, at daylight's dewy close,
When Summer flings her bloom on field and tree;
When Autumn's hand her gorgeous livery throws
O'er hill and forest, they will dream of thee.
In the lone midnight, when the world is still,
How will thine image each sad bosom thrill.
The ever dear remembrance of thy worth—
They will lament thee, when the heartless throng
Have quite forgotten thou wert once of earth;
At morning's prime, at daylight's dewy close,
When Summer flings her bloom on field and tree;
When Autumn's hand her gorgeous livery throws
O'er hill and forest, they will dream of thee.
In the lone midnight, when the world is still,
How will thine image each sad bosom thrill.
Heart-stricken mourners! mother, widowed wife!
And ye, fond sisters, still your tears restrain;
"He is not dead but sleepeth"—in the life
Beyond, immortal, ye shall meet again:
Press on, press on, to that eternal shore,
Where the tossed barque at last in safety moors;
Godto your arms the lost one will restore,
And love, celestial love, be ever yours.
Then turn from earth, with its o'ershadowing care,
And fix your hearts in heaven, for he is there.
And ye, fond sisters, still your tears restrain;
"He is not dead but sleepeth"—in the life
Beyond, immortal, ye shall meet again:
Press on, press on, to that eternal shore,
Where the tossed barque at last in safety moors;
Godto your arms the lost one will restore,
And love, celestial love, be ever yours.
Then turn from earth, with its o'ershadowing care,
And fix your hearts in heaven, for he is there.
- ↑ Beloved and respected by all who knew him, perished in the burning of the steamboat Lexington, 13th January, 1840. The above lines were written at the time, but never before published.