Attending a former Pupil to the Grave

Daughter, I will not leave thee.Thou wert wontTo sit so close beside me with thy task,And lift thy little book, and scan my face,Timing thy question wisely to my cares,And thou wouldst gently put thy hand in mineWhen summer-school was o'er, and strive to leadTo thine own pleasant home, bespeaking stillFor me such things as unto them were dear,Thy white-hair'd grandsire's kindness, or the walkIn the sweet plat of flowers, until I feltThat, of a pupil, I had made a friend.

I will not leave thee, now that thou must takeThy journey to thy sepulchre. I knowHow timid thou wert ever, and wouldst clingUnto my arm when childhood's little fearsOr troubles daunted thee. But now, behold,Thou on thy low and sable carriage lead'stAnd marshall'st us the way whaere we must go,Each for himself.Stranger and friend sweep onIn long procession.Daughter, I am nearIn this most solemn hour. I'll stay and hear

The "Dust to dust," that turns the cheek so paleOf mourning love. Till the green turf is laid,The last sad office of affection o'er,I will not leave thee, sweetest. No, I'll waitTill every lingerer hasteth to his home,And then I'll breathe a prayer beside thy bed,Thou, who so oft hast pour'd thy prayer with me.

I'll be the last to leave thee. O, be firstTo welcome me above, if, through the trustIn my Redeemer's strength, I thither rise from dust.