“We have been friends in hopes and fears
In joys and griefs the same—
Since first we learned in childhood’s years
To lisp each other’s name.
“In quiet grove, in lonely dell,
In meadows green and fair,
Beside the stream we loved so well,
If one then both were there.
“Together we our plans have laid
With hopeful brow and heart,—
When roving ’neath the summer shade,
But never thought to part.
“The spring will come, the trees will wave
As when we saw them last,
But thou wilt linger by my grave,
And muse upon the past.
“Beyond the portals of the tomb
I look with joyful eye:
A glorious light dispels the gloom,
’Tis not so hard to die.
“There is a home of rest divine—
A home prepared for me;
But hours of darkness will be thine,
For this I cling to thee.
“Hark! ’tis the angel choirs above;
I’ve but one earthly care,—
Oh, promise me by all our love
That thou wilt meet me there.”
That earnest look—I see it still,
That voice—I hear it yet;
And death this aching heart shall chill
Before it can forget.
The flowers have faded one by one,
The summer birds are flown,
And ’neath a cold autumnal sun
I wander forth alone.
The yellow leaves are falling fast
Along the river side,—
I watch them borne upon the blast,
And on the swelling tide.
I think how all things earthly fade,
Then wipe the tears that flow,
As memory brings the promise made
So many years ago.
The last expiring groan was hushed; the beaming eye
was closed—it wept no longer over the sins
of a perverse race. Those gentle and lovely features
were robed with the pallid hue of death, and the heart
that melted at the sorrows of mankind beat no longer.
The grave, the cold grave, rejoicingly closed its
dreary portals upon his sacred form; and he, the lowly
and despised Nazarene, who found no resting-place
for his weary head, slept quietly in a borrowed sepulchre.
Ah! many springs have come and gone,
And called me forth in vain;
Now winter folds the winding-sheet
Round nature’s breast again.
Young hands have gathered bright, wild flowers,
Young feet have trod the grass,
But I have watched in solitude
The mournful shadows pass.
Young hands have gathered brighter flowers
From wisdom’s pleasant tree—
But darker still the shadows fall,
There are no flowers for me!
No flowers! where shadows deepest lie
Amid the wint’ry gloom,
Thank God, I see with kindling eye
The Rose of Sharon bloom!
It is enough—my earthly hopes
Are fading one by one;
My God and my Redeemer lives,
And may his will be done.
