My Father Poem by Emma Alice Browne

In Memoriam, 1857.

My Father! Orphan lips unknown
To love's sweet uses sob the word
My father! dim with anguish, heard
In Heaven between a storm of moan
And the white calm that faith hath fixed
For solace, far beyond the world,
Where, all our starry dreams unfurled,
We drink the wine of peace unmixed.

Mine! folded in the awful trust
That draws the world's face down in awe,
Holding her breath, as if she saw
God's secret written in the dust-
My father! oh, the dreary years
The dreary winds have wailed across
Since his path, from the hills of loss,
Wound, shining, o'er the golden spheres.

What time the Angel at our door
Said soft, between our orphan-moan-
Arise! oh, soul! the night is done
And day hath bloomed forevermore!
I locked my icy hand across
My sobbing heart and sadly cried-
I lose thee in the glorified-
The world is darkened with my loss!

Oh, Angel! cried I-wrath complete!
With awful brows and eyes intense!
(For faith's white robe of reverence
Slid noiseless to my sorrow's feet)
Oh, Angel, help me out of strife!
I could have borne all mortal pain-
I could have lived my life in vain-
But this hath touched my inner life!

And eighteen hundred fifty-seven
Hath filled a decade of slow years
Since first my orphan cries and tears
Broke wild across the walls of Heaven.
This eve his grave is winter-white!
And 'twixt the snow-wind's stormy thrills
I hear across the Northern hills
The solemn footsteps of the night!

Blow wind! Oh, wind, blow wild and high!
Blow o'er the dismal space of woods-
Blow down the roaring Northern floods
And let the dreary day go by!
Blow, wind, from out the shining West,
And wrap the hazy world in glow-
Blow wind and drift about my snow
The summer of his endless rest!

For he has fallen fast asleep
And cannot give me moan for moan-
My heart is heavy as a stone
And there is no one left to weep!
My
soul
is heavy and doth lie
Reaching up from my wretchedness-
Reaching up blindly for redress
The stern gray walls of entity!

Once in the golden spring-time hours,
In the sweet garden of my youth,
There fell a seed of bitter truth
That sprang and shadowed all the flowers-
Alone! The roses died apace
And pale the mournful violet blew-
Only the royal lily grew
And glorified the lonesome place!

In me the growth of human ills
Than human love had reached no higher,
But Seraphim with lips of fire
Have won me to the shining hills-
I cannot hide my soul in art-
I cannot mend my life's defect-
This thunderous space of intellect
God gave me for a peaceful heart!

Hush! oh, my mournful heart, be still,
The heavy night is coming on,
But heavier lie the shadows drawn
About his grave so low and chill-
From out the awful sphere of God,
Oh, deathly wind, blow soft and low!
My soul is weary and would go
Where never foot of mortal trod!