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Poems (Rice)/To the Future Occupant of my Home at Melrose

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Poems
by Maria Theresa Rice
To the Future Occupant of my Home at Melrose
4528555Poems — To the Future Occupant of my Home at MelroseMaria Theresa Rice
TO THE FUTURE OCCUPANT OF MY HOME AT MELROSE.
GENTLE lady, after sealing
I would write a simple line;
Not without emotion, feeling,
While I by this act resign;
Destiny there's no defying,
It is done, the Deed is sealed;
Many memories undying—
These my heart can never yield.

How upon a theme so tender
Can I trust my heart to-day,
While my home to thee I render,
Tell thee all I wish to say?
This is anguish never sounded,
Never till to-day before;
This is sadness, grief unbounded,
Reaching.to my bosom's core.

Gentle lady, if I falter,
Pardon—this is hard to bear—
Yielding up my home, my altar,
Dear to me beyond compare;
Here are links which I must sever,
Ties to break and yet be strong;
In the path of duty ever,
This shall cheer, to-day, my song.

Lady, oft alone thou'lt ponder
On the beauty of each view,
And thy mind be filled with wonder,
It may thrill with rapture too;
From the north and south extended,
Every way which thou mayst turn,
Nature's mysteries are blended,
Something ever new to learn.

All these sacred pictures leaving,
All I render unto thee;
Still my heart to them is cleaving,
Still they bear a charm for me;
Scented groves and garden bowers,
Vales I ne'er may see again,
Mountains, rocks, and wild wood flowers—
Language, ah, to-day is vain.

Gentle lady, from thy slumbers,
When each morn thou dost awake,
When the minstrels trill their numbers,
A request I have to make,—
To attend this feathered choir;
Long with thee will they abide,
Charming more than lute or lyre
If thou wilt for them provide.

Still another I implore,
Of importance more than this;
When the needy at thy door,
That they never me may miss;
Of thy goods O give a share,
Speak a tender word for me;
While ascends my daily prayer,
I will offer one for thee.

Like the Dove, alone and dreary,
Henceforth from this Ark I go;
Searching till my heart may weary
For a resting-place below;
Like the Dove of olden story,
Happy would it be for me
Should I find that peace, that glory,
In that Ark, O God, with Thee.