When I am dead, and all will soon forget...

When I am dead, and all will soon forget

My words, and face, and ways —

I, somehow, think I'll walk beside thee yet

Adown thy after days.

I die first, and you will see my grave;

But child! you must not cry;

For my dead hand will brightest blessings wave

O'er you from yonder sky.

You must not weep; I believe I'd hear your tears

Tho’ sleeping in a tomb:

My rest would not be rest, if in your years

There floated clouds of gloom.

For — from the first — your soul was dear to mine,

And dearer it became,

Until my soul, in every prayer, would twine

Thy name — my child! thy name.

You came to me in girlhood pure and fair,

And in your soul — and face —

I saw a likeness to another there

In every trace and grace.

You came to me in girlhood — and you brought

An image back to me;

No matter what — or whose — I often sought

Another's soul in thee.

Didst ever mark how, sometimes, I became —

Gentle though I be —

Gentler than ever when I called thy name,

Gentlest to thee?

You came to me in girlhood; as your guide

I watched your spirit's ways;

We walked God's holy valleys side by side,

And so went on the days.

And so went on the years —‘ tis five and more;

Your soul is fairer now;

A light as of a sunset on a shore

Is falling on my brow —

Is falling, soon to fade; when I am dead

Think this, my child, of me:

I never said — I never could have said —

Ungentle words to thee.

I treated you as I would treat a flower,

I watched you with such care;

And from my lips God heard in many an hour

Your name in many a prayer.

I watched the flower's growth; so fair it grew,

On not a leaf a stain;

Your soul to purest thoughts so sweetly true;

I did not watch in vain.

I guide you still — in my steps you tread still;

Towards God these ways are set;

‘ Twill soon be over: child! when I am dead

I'll watch and guide you yet.

‘ Tis better far that I should go before,

And you awhile should stay;

But I will wait upon the golden shore

To meet my child some day.

When I am dead; in some lone after time,

If crosses come to thee,

You'll think — remembering this simple rhyme —

“He holds a crown for me.”

I guide you here — I go before you there;

But here or there — I know —

Whether the roses, or the thorny crown you wear

I'll watch where'er you go,

And wait until you come; when I am dead

Think, sometimes, child, of this:

You must not weep — follow where I led,

I wait for you in bliss.