Poems : patriotic, religious, miscellaneous / by Abram J. Ryan [electronic text]

M * * *

When I am dead, and all will soon forget My words, and face, and ways — I, somehow, think I'll walk beside thee yet Adown thy after days.

I die first, and you will see my grave; But child! you must not cry; For my dead hand will brightest blessings wave O'er you from yonder sky.

You must not weep; I believe I'd hear your tears Tho' sleeping in a tomb: My rest would not be rest, if in your years There floated clouds of gloom.

For — from the first — your soul was dear to mine, And dearer it became, Until my soul, in every prayer, would twine Thy name — my child! thy name.

You came to me in girlhood pure and fair, And in your soul — and face — I saw a likeness to another there In every trace and grace.

You came to me in girlhood — and you brought An image back to me; No matter what — or whose — I often sought Another's soul in thee.

Didst ever mark how, sometimes, I became — Gentle though I be — Gentler than ever when I called thy name, Gentlest to thee?

You came to me in girlhood; as your guide I watched your spirit's ways; We walked God's holy valleys side by side, And so went on the days.

And so went on the years —'tis five and more; Your soul is fairer now; A light as of a sunset on a shore Is falling on my brow —

Is falling, soon to fade; when I am dead Think this, my child, of me: I never said — I never could have said — Ungentle words to thee.

I treated you as I would treat a flower, I watched you with such care; And from my lips God heard in many an hour Your name in many a prayer.

I watched the flower's growth; so fair it grew, On not a leaf a stain; Your soul to purest thoughts so sweetly true; I did not watch in vain.

I guide you still — in my steps still you tread; Towards God these ways are set; 'Twill soon be over: child! when I am dead I'll watch and guide you yet.

'Tis better far that I should go before, And you awhile should stay; But I will wait upon the golden shore To meet my child some day.

When I am dead; in some lone after time, If crosses come to thee, You'll think — remembering this simple rhyme — "He holds a crown for me."

I guide you here — I go before you there; But here or there — I know — Whether the roses, or the thorny crown you wear I'll watch where'er you go,

And wait until you come; when I am dead Think, sometimes, child, of this: You must not weep — follow where I led, I wait for you in bliss.