Part 2 — A DAUGHTER’S MEMORY.

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BY MARY L. LAWSON.

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My father, by the simple stone

That marks thy grave I stand alone;

The birds with joyous love-notes sing

A welcome to the early spring;

The cloudless skies, the balmy air,

And soft young flowers, proclaim it fair;

But now their gladness can impart

No sense of beauty to thy heart.

Yet first I learnt from thee to trace

Each varying hue on Nature’s face,

Its teachings bade thy spirit move

My heart to deeper truth and love;

For varied lore, arranged, defined,

Was graven in thine active mind,

And every path thy footstep trod

Seemed written with the name of God.

And well remembrance wakes for me

My ne’er forgotten walks with thee;

How oft we paused with thoughtful eye

To mark the changes of the sky,

Or idly lingered, to inhale

The breathings of the summer gale,

On bird and tree and flower to look—

As pages in Creation’s book.

Then questions of thy boyhood’s day

Would lead thy musing soul away,

And borne along by memory’s tide

Came visions of thy native Clyde,

The ripple of the mountain rills,

The heather scent from breezy hills,

Until thy glance would brightly beam

With interest in thy chosen theme.

I listened then with eager ear

The tales of other days to hear,

For oft thy voice would lead me back,

From life’s insipid daily track,

To wild romance and warfare rude,

That mingle in old Scotland’s mood,

For thou didst know and paint them well,

And wandering fancy warmed the spell.

My father, how the tear-drop swells

As o’er the past my vision dwells,

When I have stood beside thy chair

And smoothed and kissed thy silvery hair,

Whose silken threads are dearer now

Than hope’s gay dream or lover’s vow,

For life can hold no joy for me

More cherished than my thoughts of thee.

And thou hast left a name behind

That Art must prize and Science find;

Thy talents to the world are known,

But dearer memories are my own.

Though all approve the stainless worth

That sleeps beneath this spot of earth,

The kindness that awakens love

Thy children’s hearts alone can prove.

No gorgeous tomb in words proclaim

Thine honest truth and well earned fame,

Nor sculptured urn, nor heartless praise,

The stranger’s studied care betrays;

But thou wert fondly laid to rest

Where tender tears thy grave has blest,

Embalmed in feelings pure and high

That soar from earth beyond the sky.