In A Season Of Bereavement.

A poem by Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

Bright summer comes, all bloom and flowers,
To garland o'er her faded bowers;
There's balm and sunshine on her wing,
But where's the friend she used to bring?
One heart is sad 'mid all the glee,
And only asks, "Oh, where is he?"

He comes not now, he comes not now,
To chase the gloom from off my brow,
He comes not with his wonted smile
The weary moments to beguile.
There's joy in every look I see,
But mine is sad, for "Where is he?"

Closed is the book we used to read;
There's none to smile, there's none to heed;
Our 'customed walk's deserted, too;
It charms not as it used to do;
The fav'rite path, the well-known tree,
All, all are whispering, "Where is he?"

This faithful heart is now a shrine
For each dear look and tone of thine,
And every scene thou used to prize
Forever hallowed in my eyes;
But oh! how loved those friends shall be
Whose tearful eyes say, "Where is he?"

I would not breathe to stranger's ear
A name so sacred and so clear,
And, when the reckless crowd are nigh,
My bosom checks the rising sigh;
But when no human eye can see.
It bleeding cries, "Ah, where is he?"

Oh, how I miss thy smile of light,
"Welcome" at morn and kind "good night!"
But, when the quiet eve comes on,
I feel that thou indeed art gone.
That herald of delight to me
Is joyless now, for "Where is he?"

I have not seen the crimson dye,
Which sunset gives the western sky,
Since on thy couch of death thou lay
And watched its glories fade away.
Those hues, so oft admired with thee,
Would ask too loudly, "Where is he?"

And oh! that orb, on whose mild rays
So fondly, too, we used to gaze,
And, though far distant, there unite
At the same sacred hour of night,
Seems sadly now to whisper me,
"Thou art all alone, where, where is he?"

Life was to us no cloudless day,
Blossom and blight still marked our way;
But sorrow is not skilled to part,
It links more closely heart to heart.
Yes! and they ever linked shall be
"Summer, oh! tell me, where is he?"

I hear a voice upon the breeze,
It speaks of holier ties than these;
Of worlds, where farewell sounds are o'er,
And Death a victor never more.
It bids me for that clime prepare,
And sweetly whispers, "He is there."

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