TO THE WALKING-STICK OF MY DEAD FRIEND

To my hand thou com'st at last,

Wand of ebon, tipped with gold,—

Often carried in the past

By a hand that now lies cold

In his grave beyond the sea,

Many thousand miles from me.

Faithful staff! for many years

Thou didst travel far and wide

Through a life of smiles and tears,—

Rarely absent from his side,

As the light of day for him

Grew pathetically dim.

When with thee he walked abroad,

Every crossing, every stair

By thy touch was first explored,

Ere his feet were planted there,

With a sort of rhythmic beat

On the pavement of the street.

Hence, when brought to face the gloom

Of a way, to all unknown,

Called to leave his sunlit room

For death's darkness, quite alone,

He instinctively again

Called to mind his faithful cane.

To whose grasp should it descend,

Since with him it could not go?

Surely no one save a friend

Would receive and prize it so!

Thus to me wast thou bequeathed,

To console a heart bereaved.

Friendship's gift, belovd wand!

Thou shalt likewise go with me

To the shore of the Beyond,

To the dark, untravelled sea;

Only left upon the strand,

When my bark puts forth from land.