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.