Poems (Stephens)/To my brother

by Eliza Jane Stephens

For works with similar titles, see To My Brother.

TO MY BROTHER.

Since thou art gone how lonely is our home,
 How desolate the place which once was glad:
Past is the lovely Spring and Summer's bloom,—
 But still we mourn thee, still our hearts are sad.

We wander through each old familiar room,
 Where our companion thou wast wont to be,
And seeing them the same as in the past,
 We look around, but look in vain for thee.

We for the moment fail to realize
 The sad, the fearful work which death has done;
How cold and still the heart that loved us lies,—
 Forever hushed when life had just begun.

Here is thy chair in its accustomed place,
 Thy books still lying on the table by,
Thy pictures hanging on the wall—all these
 Reminding us of thee, will meet the eye.

But oh, we miss that happy beaming smile,
 That gladdened all with whom thou chanced to meet,
We miss the accents of that well-known voice,
 Whose every tone for us was music sweet.

We miss that cheerful spirit so resigned
 Whatever ills of life were thine to bear;
But most we miss the sympathizing friend,
 Who shared alike our joys and deepest care.

Where e'er we turn, our thoughts are still of thee
 At morn, at noon, or at the evening hour;
Death could not rob us of thy memory,
 Time only has a gentle soothing power.

And yet 'tis well, tho' we've known much of care
 Though dark with sorrow were the paths we've trod,
If we shall gain at last the eternal rest—
 At last are with thee, and thenceforth with God.