Here’s the tomb of my father—how mournful the thought! That he went to the grave ere my infantile mind One smile of parental affection had caught, Or his lineaments dear in my heart were enshrined! Yes, my sire! by thy dust I am kneeling in prayer, Where in days of my childhood so oft I have wept, Imploring thy spirit to soothe my despair, And at evening and morning sweet vigils have kept. Ere my young mind could grasp them, they told me thy woes; Of the virtues that bind thee forever to me; Of the love of thy friends, of the hate of thy foes; That in features and mind I was like unto thee; And with dawning of thought is thy memory wove, The grief and the pining that prey on my breast; The longing to soar to thy dwelling above, And repose in thine arms in the Land of the Blest. I have never seen parents their children caress, Or soothe into quiet their heart-breathing When the storm of misfortune around them did press, But the tears of affection arose to mine eyes: I have ne’er met a maid by the side of her sire, Or beheld in the festal a father who kept Watch over his daughter, and seemed to admire His lovely and beautiful charge, but I’ve wept. My mother lies by him—blessed saint of the skies! Remembrance returns thee; how gentle and meek; I behold thee when youth filled with radiance thine eyes, And beauty and health were illuming thy cheek; When thy delicate form was elastic as air, When thy bosom was white as the Parian’s glow, When thy beautiful ringlets of long, flowing hair, In sable threads sprinkled thy forehead of snow. How solemn, dear mother! it seems, that the clay, Relentless and cold, now encumbers the breast, Where, all helpless, so oft I in infancy lay, And, soothed by thy lullaby, sobbed me to rest; That on earth I shall never behold thee again, Never more feel thy rosy lips pressing my brow, Or thy fairy hand smoothing my pillow of pain— Thy affection and love must forever forgo! My sister sleeps next—lovely blossom of heaven! Ah, why wast thou summoned so early away? Why so soon was the bond of our sisterhood riven, And I left alone on the cold earth to stay? Why wast thou not spared to delight and to cheer My desolate heart ’mid depression and gloom; With thy love-breathing counsels to gladden my ear— With thy songs and thy smiles to enliven my home? Sleep on, ye beloved! it is better to rest In the halls of the dead, than to linger in life, Where the brain and the bosom with pains are oppressed And the soul is beleaguered by sorrow and strife; Sleep on! though no blossoms your homes are perfuming, There are calmness and freedom from discord and care, The lovely and beautiful daily are coming— And in my pale vesture I soon shall be there.