Frail stranger at the gate of life,
Too weak to grasp its key,
O'er whom the Sun on car of gold
Hath but a few times risen and roll'd,
Unnoticed still by thee,—
To whom the toil of breath is new,
In this our vale of time
Whose feet are yet unskill'd to tread
The grassy carpet round thee spread
At the soft, vernal prime,—
Deep sympathy and pitying care
Regard thy helpless moan,
And‘ neath thy forehead arching high
Methinks, the brightly opening eye
Doth search for something gone.
Yon slumberer‘ mid the snowy flowers,
With young, unfrosted hair,
Awakes not at the mournful sound
Of bird-like voices murmuring round
“Why sleeps our Mother there?”
Hers was that sunshine of the heart,
Which Home's fair region cheer'd,
Hers the upright, unselfish aim,
The fond response to duty's claim,
The faith that never fear'd.
Oh mystery! brooding oft so dark
O'er this our path below,
Not ours, with wild, repining sigh,
To ask the wherefore, or the why,
But drink our cup of woe.
So, in her shrouded beauty cold,
Yield to the earth its own,
Assured that Heaven will guard the trust,
Of that which may not turn to dust,
But dwells beside the Throne.