Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Filial Grief
FILIAL GRIEF.
The love that blest our infant dream,
That dried our earliest tear,
The tender voice, the winning smile
That made our home so dear,
The hand that urged our youthful thought
O'er low delights to soar,
Whose pencil wrote upon our souls,
Alas! is ours no more.
Go, lay the Bible that she lov'd,
Upon her coffin lid,
Its spirit like a precious balm
Deep in her breast was hid,
And daily o'er its page she bent
With calm and saintly brow,
It was her chosen friend through life:
Take it not from her now.
Bring forth, bring forth the plants she rear'd
To the freest sun and air,
And daily o'er their welfare watch
With all a florist's care,—
Nor let a blossom that she nurs'd,
A stem she taught to twine,
By aught of cold forgetfulness
Droop on the parent vine.
And in our hearts the germs she placed,
With the warm trust of prayer,
Still fondly cherish for her sake
With unabated care;
Deep fear of God, good will to man,
Religion's meek pursuit,
These were the seeds our mother sowed,—
Let them bear perfect fruit.