Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Death of the Rev. Alfred Mitchell
DEATH OF THE REV. ALFRED MITCHELL.
One of his last inquiries was,"Am I so near my home?"
So near thy home, blest saint? Thy Father's house
Hath many mansions, if it were not so
He would have told thee, who hath there prepar'd
A place for thee, his servant. Earth's array
Of charms was strong to tempt thy lingering love.
The fond communings round thy native hearth,
Where 'mid the honor'd and the blest did blend
Soul deep with soul, thy own unclouded home,
Thy answer'd sympathies, thy hallow'd hopes,
A parent's joys close clustering round thy heart,
The flock that gather'd near thee, pleas'd to learn
From thy mild eye, and lip benign, the will
Of the Chief Shepherd,—ties like these were thine.
—And one there is, who with a widow'd heart
Through the lone shadows of life's pilgrim-path,
Will follow in thy footsteps, even as thou
Didst follow Christ.
Thy pleasant spot of birth
Is sad without thee, and an ancient head
Circled with years and blessings as a crown
Bows low with the first pang thou e'er didst cause
A father's bosom. Ah! and there are tears
Of tender love in many an eye for thee,
Sackcloth and ashes in the house of God.
'Tis well. Pure spirits should not pass unmourn'd,
This earth is poor without them. But a view
Of better climes broke on thee, and thy soul
Rose o'er its stricken tent with outspread wing
Of seraph rapture: for to reach a home
Where is no restless hope, no vain desire,
No film o'er faith's bright eye, for love no blight,
Is glorious gain: and lo! that home is thine.