Thompson, Priscilla Jane
|TO A DECEASED FRIEND|
THE veil of Death hath fallen,
Loved one, 'twixt three and me;
Thou art now among the chosen of the Lord;
With heavenly saints immortal,
Enrobed in sanctity,
Thou art chanting with the blest, in sweet accord.
Oh, ever bright thy image,
Is pictured in my heart,
'Though autumn after autumn now hath flown;
But memories still steal o'er me,
In which thou hast a part,
And I sometimes yearn to rob Death of his own.
Well didst thou keep the promise,
My dying mother craved:
That thou shouldst ever guard her orphan brood;
Oh, blessed foster-mother!
Thy tenderest love, thou gav'st;
And thou ever taught me lessons, pure and good.
Oh Death! why rob so early?
Why snatched thou, her from me--
When I, in wane of childhood, craved her most?
If longer thou hadst spared her--
I could ungrudgingly,
Permitted her to be unto me lost,
Oh many times in blindness--
Have I stumbled as I tread57The rugged old road, which to me is new,
And I miss thy warm hand's pressure,
And I grieve that thou art dead;
While sad, regretful, tears mine eyes bedew.
But sleep, beloved mother,
Why should'st I grudge thy rest?
For thou indeed has done the "better part;"
A mother to the orphaned,
Of wives the true and best,
My inmost self, can yield thee with glad heart.