OUR SWEET SINGER

ONE memory trembles on our lips;

It throbs in every breast;

In tear-dimmed eyes, in mirth's eclipse,

The shadow stands confessed.

O silent voice, that cheered so long

Our manhood's marching day,

Without thy breath of heavenly song,

How weary seems the way!

Vain every pictured phrase to tell

Our sorrowing heart's desire,—

The shattered harp, the broken shell,

The silent unstrung lyre;

For youth was round us while he sang;

It glowed in every tone;

With bridal chimes the echoes rang,

And made the past our own.

Oh blissful dream! Our nursery joys

We know must have an end,

But love and friendship's broken toys

May God's good angels mend!

The cheering smile, the voice of mirth

And laughter's gay surprise

That please the children born of earth.

Why deem that Heaven denies?

Methinks in that refulgent sphere

That knows not sun or moon,

An earth-born saint might long to hear

One verse of “Bonny Doon”;

Or walking through the streets of gold

In heaven's unclouded light,

His lips recall the song of old

And hum “The sky is bright.”

And can we smile when thou art dead?

Ah, brothers, even so!

The rose of summer will be red,

In spite of winter's snow.

Thou wouldst not leave us all in gloom

Because thy song is still,

Nor blight the banquet-garland's bloom

With grief's untimely chill.

The sighing wintry winds complain,—

The singing bird has flown,—

Hark! heard I not that ringing strain,

That clear celestial tone?

How poor these pallid phrases seem,

How weak this tinkling line,

As warbles through my waking dream

That angel voice of thine!

Thy requiem asks a sweeter lay;

It falters on my tongue;

For all we vainly strive to say,

Thou shouldst thyself have sung!