J. H. On The Death Of His Wife.

A poem by Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

Oh, when I found that Death had set
His awful stamp on thee,
Deserted on Life's stormy shore,
I thought that Time could have in store
Not one more shaft for me.

Long I had watched thy lingering bloom
That brightened 'mid decay;
And then its eloquent appeal
Would ask my heart if death could steal
Such loveliness away.

And oh! could pure unsullied worth
Or peerless beauty save,
We had not stood as mourners here,
And shed the unavailing tear
O'er thy untimely grave.

But we have seen thee lowly laid,
And I am here alone;
Each morn I shuddering wake to feel
The consciousness around me steal,
That all my hopes are flown.

All, did I say? Ingrate indeed!
Oh, be the thought forgiven;
Has he not hopes and interests here,
Whose sacred task it is to rear
A family for Heaven?

Rebellious heart! some tendril ties
Around thee still are thrown;
Oh, while this cherub group is mine,
Heaven's dearest gift I can resign,
And say, "Thy will be done."

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