THY Mary hath gone from thee; — thou hast folded
For the last time her dear form to thy breast,
And on those lips, in softest beauty moulded,
The last, last kiss of yearning love hast pressed.

She hath gone from thee; — thou hast seen her lying
Gasping away the life so dear to thee;
And thou didst hold her hand while she was dying,
Till the long sleep stole o'er her tranquilly; —

One after one didst feel thy heart-strings breaking,
As each faint pulse grew fainter in that hand;
Though thou didst know that she was only taking
Her flight before thee to the better land.

It was the hand in love's devotion given,
When first she stood thy young and trustful bride, —
The hand which led thy children on to heaven, —
'T was hers who lived, joyed, suffered by thy side.

Yet there were stars in holy brightness shining
Down on the midnight path which thou hast trod;
Didst thou not see her meekly earth resigning,
And leaning on the bosom of her God?

She hath not left thee wholly broken-hearted; —
Was it not thine to watch her latest breath?
To print upon her lips, ere she departed,
The seal of love, the good-night kiss of death?

And thou didst see no stranger hand composing
Her fair limbs in the attitude of sleep;
Severing her tresses, and the fringed lids closing
O'er those dark eyes which now have ceased to weep.

And though thy Mary walks in highest heaven,
Ye were knit soul to soul, as heart to heart;
The love to light your earthly pathway given
Was of that heaven to which she rose a part.

She placed her earthly being in thy keeping;
When thou art anguished, can she be at rest?
Will she not feel the tears which thou art weeping,
Like swift rain falling on her angel breast?

And will she not, while now 'the new song' learning,
Amid its pauses hear thy mournful sighs?
Will she not feel a vain and painful yearning
To bear thee peace and comfort from the skies?

Then mourn no more, — 't will sadden her in glory
To know how ceaselessly flow forth thy tears;
And she will tell the angels the sad story,
How she hath left thee in thy night of years, —

A lone, despairing, broken-hearted mourner,
For one dear presence evermore to pine;
And they will grieve that they should thus have borne her,
Even to heaven, from such a love as thine.