Poems (Schiller)/Uncle Joe
UNCLE JOE
Poor Uncle Joe! Long months and years Have swiftly sped around,Since friends bedewed with mournful tears Thy new-made earthen mound.
The fretted marble at thy head Is growing gray and worn,And long neglect hath greatly sped The growth of weed and thorn.
For grief has slept this many a day, As it e'er does and will;And nearest kin scarce over stray Out to thy burial hill.
And yet thou art not quite forgot; Thy portrait decks my wall,Thy name and form with tender thought I often-times recall.
And when the hall of mem'ry fair Looms up at will of mine,Full many a picture gleameth there, Made bright by deed of thine.
But I no longer am the child You used to love and know,Whose weary hours you oft beguiled In the dim long ago.
Ah, no! The years that never pause In their untiring flightHave borne me far from where I was Upon thy sad death-night.
And the life-path that I have trod Has not been always fair;For I have felt the Chast'ner's rod, And bowed 'neath weights of care.
And I have seen my dearest dreams Reach an untimely goal,And waves from bitter Marah-streams Have surged across my soul.
And thus in every mortal's course The light and shade are blent;And well it is, if no remorse For grave misdeeds is sent.
Then rest thee on! I would not call Thy presence back to earth;Thou hast but met the fate of all Who are of mortal birth.October, 1870.