  I cannot make him dead! His fair sunshiny head Is ever bounding round my study chair; Yet when my eyes, now dim With tears, I turn to him, The vision vanishes,—he is not there! I walk my parlor floor, And through the open door I hear a footfall on the chamber stair; I'm stepping toward the hall To give the boy a call; And then bethink me that—he is not there! I thread the crowded street; A satchelled lad I meet, With the same beaming eyes and colored hair; And, as he's running by, Follow him with my eye, Scarcely believing that—he is not there! I know his face is hid Under the coffin lid; Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair; My hand that marble felt; O'er it in prayer I knelt; Yet my heart whispers that—he is not there! I cannot make him dead! When passing by the bed, So long watched over with parental care, My spirit and my eye Seek him inquiringly, Before the thought comes that—he is not there! When, at the cool gray break Of day, from sleep I wake, With my first breathing of the morning air My soul goes up, with joy, To Him who gave my boy; Then comes the sad thought that—he is not there! When at the day's calm close, Before we seek repose, I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer; Whate'er I may be saying, I am in spirit praying For our boy's spirit, though—he is not there! Not there!—Where, then, is he? The form I used to see Was but the raiment that he used to wear. Upon that cast-off dress, Is but his wardrobe locked;—he is not there! He lives!—In all the past He lives; nor, to the last, Of seeing him again will I despair; In dreams I see him now; And on his angel brow I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!" Yes, we all live to God! Father, thy chastening rod So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, That in the spirit-land, Meeting at thy right hand, 'Twill be our heaven to find that—he is there! John Pierpont. |
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