To her Father

My Father! sweet thine accents fall,And full of tender love;These will thy suffering child recall,When thou art blest above.

Thou didst the words of joy and peaceWith faith and love combine,That taught my soul from earth to cease,And seek to follow thine.

Oh! shall no more my listening earCatch that celestial voice;No more thy heavenly converse hear,That bade my soul rejoice!

Those words of kind, parental care,Which soothed my bed of pain;That look of sympathy, oh! ne'erShall I behold again!

Where shall thy suffering child repair,To seek protection now?Since Death's cold hand, so often near,Has touched thine honored brow.

Where shall this helpless, writhing formA kind supporter find?And where, oh! where, midst sorrow's storm,Shall rest this struggling mind?

Who will, like thee, direct the prayerWith strong desire to heaven;And grace unto thy children bear,To fervent pleadings given?

O blessed parent, guide, and friend!Where shall my soul repose?Our sky is dark; what ills attend!The world no succour shows.

Where?—but alas! on earth how vainTo seek a cure for grief:Yet One the helpless will sustain;Thy God will give relief

Yes, He to whom thy soul shall rise,And be for ever blest,Will look in pity from the skies,And give thy children rest