By Grace Aguilar.
The subject of this poem was a young and
extraordinarily gifted friend, called hence to glory at a very early
age, whose precocious intellect, virtue, and piety, indeed marked him as
one of those whose early removal is one of the most unanswerable proofs
of that “better land,” where all that was so promising on earth
shall be made perfect.
Weep not for him! Tho’ the grave
hath closed o’er him
Ere life had o’erclouded his beautiful bloom,
The bright world above shall in glory restore him
To joy that will end not in sorrow and gloom.
Weep not for him! Tho’ his pure,
gentle spirit
For ever is lost to a cold, chequer’d world;
’Tis summon’d in mercy that bliss to inherit,
Which waiteth till death his dark wing has unfurl’d.
Weep not for him! Tho’ a young
mind possessing
Such glorious gifts might not linger below,
Made perfect in heav’n, ere earth was repressing
Their beauty and strength ‘neath her mantle of wo.
Weep not for him! Tho’ the
bright seed was springing
To flowers, sweet flowers, of virtue and love,
That fragrance afar from his bosom were flinging,
Rich incense of prayer to his Father above.
He hath but returned to his own
native heaven,
The fountain of love, whence in beauty he came;
And perfection and glory to his bright gifts are given,
More lovely and pure than earth’s pale wreath of
fame.
Weep not for him! Tho’ from us
hath departed
A spirit Truth circled with rays all her own,
Whose meekness and beauty so long have imparted
But joyance and freshness and fondness alone.
Weep not for him! Oh none may
deplore him;
This world is not fitted for spirits like his;
The frail, fading joys our love could fling o’er him
Had satisfied never
his yearnings for bliss.
Weep not for him! Thus taken, ere
sorrow
One shadow had flung o’er his young spirit’s joy;
He hath gone to a world where there dawns not a morrow,
The bliss of the present to chill or destroy.
