On the Death of my daughter Lucretia
And art thou gone so soon?
And is thy loving gentle spirit fled?
Ah! is my fair, my passing beautiful,
My loved Lucretia numbered with the dead?
Ah! art thou gone so soon?
I miss thee, daughter, now,
In the dear nooks of earth we oft have trod
And a strange longing fills my yearning soul
To sleep with thee, and be, like thee, with God!
I miss thee, daughter, now.
I miss thee at thy books,
Lisping sweet bible-accents in my ear,
Showing me pictures by the evening lamp,
Beautiful emblems thou didst love so dear:
I miss thee at thy books.
I miss thee by the brook,
Where we have wander'd many a summer's day,
And thou wert happy with thy loving sire,
More happy here than at simple play:
I miss thee by the brook.
I miss thee in the Reenes,
Where we have hasted in the twilight dim
To wake the echoes of the silent dell,
And mark the glow-worm 'neath the hawthorn's limb:
I miss thee in the Reenes.
I miss thee on the Hill,
The dear old hill which we have climb'd so oft;
And O, how very happy we have been
In the still bower of the heathy croft!
I miss thee on the Hill.
I miss thee at day's close,
When from my labour I regain my cot,
And sit down sadly at the supper-board,
Looking for thee, but, ah! I see thee not:
I miss the at day's close.
I miss thee everywhere,-
In my small garden, watching the first flower,-
By the clear fountain,- in thy Sunday-class,-
Running to meet me at the evening-hour:
I miss thee everywhere.
Farewell my beautiful!
Thy sinless spirit is with Christ above:
Thou hast escaped the evils of the world:
We have a daughter in the meads of love.
Farewell my beautiful!
When I and little Jane,
Walk hand in hand along the old hill's way,
Shall we not feel thy cherub-presence, love,
Singing our sad psalms in the twilight grey?
I shall soon go to thee.
Companion of the bard,
Mid rocks and trees, and hedges ivy-cross'd!
t morn and eve in Nature's presence-cell
We oft have enter'd with our musings lost,
My child, my harp, and I.
How thou didst love the flowers,
The mountain-heather and the buds of Spring,
The brooks and birds, the hush of solutide,
The moon and stars, like some diviner thing,
Beautiful prophetess!
Ah! thou were like a rose,
Dropp'd by an angel on earth's feverish clime,
To bloom full lovely, till December's winds
Blasted thy beauty in its morning prime,
Ere it had half unclosed!
Hush, murmering spirit, Hush!
It is the Lord, He only, who hath given:
And he hath taken - blessed be his name!-
The gem, which fell from paradise, to heaven:
I bow and kiss His rod.
