Poems (Griffith)/In Memory of my Father
In Memory of my Father.
DEAR father mine, thy grave is far away—Soft, sunny skies, bend warm and lovingly Above thy dreamless slumber, and the waves Of a far southern stream sweep by, and bear In their low tones a message and a sigh From thy unhappy child.
My father dear, These eyes have never gazed upon thy grave, These hands have never taught the sweet Spring-rose To bloom on that neglected spot; but Within my soul there is a holy flower, A flower perennial, watered with my tears, And kissed to bloom by the sweet beam of love— Father, that flower is memory of thee. Years, weary, anxious years have passed o'er earth, And shadowed in their course young, loving hearts, Since that bright morning when we saw thee go Forth in the beauty of thy glorious prime, Bearing to thy far southern home a fair And gentle bride. Oh, father, thou didst kiss Thy little prattler with a beaming smile, And give her to thy mother's holy care; But even then I heard a faint, low sigh, Which sadly fell upon my ear and heart, The omen of a coming agony.
They tell me that a fair, young stranger girl, Who knew thee not, has placed a sweet wildrose To shed its gentle fragrance o'er thy dust. Her pitying heart was deeply touched to look On thy neglected sleep, and, with the pure Sweet instinct of a daughter, she placed flowers Upon thy lonely grave. My deep heart breathes A blessing upon hers. Oh may no griefs E'er fall upon her life like those which rest So dark on mine.
Oh father, my poor heart Is lone and sad to-night. In agony 'Tis calling to thee in thy distant grave. I am an orphan lone, and, when my brow Is fevered and my heart oppressed, I fain Would fly to thee; I would pour out my grief Beside thy mouldering ashes; I would weep Beside the cold grave-stone, and on the ear Of Death would breathe a stricken daughter's woe. My spirit calls to thine—oh come to me In this lone hour, and let me know once more A father's holy love. Ah, now a strange Mysterious thrill comes o'er my soul; I feel A spirit's presence father, is it thine! Yes, it is thine, I see thee, and through all The trembling fibres of my frame I feel That hallowed kiss. Stay, blessed father, stay, And leave me never more alone on this Cold desert of the earth. If thou must go, Dear father, fold thy angel-wings around Thy child, and bear her to thy far blue home, To rest for ever with our God and thee.
Bedford, Ky