In Memory of Mrs Adeline K. O'Brien

SHE is not here! Alas, she is not here!Yet all still breathes and speaks of her. Her sweetAnd living presence is in every thing.The very breeze, deep-laden with the soft,Rich perfume of her own, her much-loved flowers,Seems murmuring with a sigh her cherished name.Through the lone chambers of her darkened homeI wander oft, and pine to greet once moreHer beauteous form now mingling with the dust.The shadow of deep gloom hath settled roundThe holy hearth where joy was wont to ring.The lovely Spring-time is again on earth,Kissing the thousand wild-flowers into bloomAnd fairy life; upon the rosy galeThe wild-bird's song is floating; a bright robeIs o'er the wooded hills; and from the soft,Green bosom of the earth, the young buds burstsAs springs the soul immortal from the tombOf darkness and of shadow; but the flowersLook sad, a hue of sorrow seems to dimTheir beauty's glow, as if they missed her sweetAnd gentle ministry, and wept bright tearsOf dew for their dear sister-spirit dead;The wild-bird's music seems a wail of griefBreathed for the loved and lost; the blessed beamHas lost its smile, as if it sought in vainFor her fair angel-brow, on which to shedIts answering lustre.

All is lone and drear—I gaze upon her partner's grief-bow'd form,And mark the deepened silver of his locks,And my heart checks its selfish sighs. Her child,Her cherub-child, is sporting in the bloomOf infancy, but yet her very mirthSeems strangely sad, as if her spirit feltThat Death's stern hand had crushed her parent stem,And thrown her as a loosened bud to floatUpon the dark and stormy waves of time,A thing of lone and blighted life.

Dear friend,Friend of my childhood's bright and happy years,Where dwells thy spirit, now? I feel its powerIn this calm twilight air; I catch thy toneIn the sweet cadence of this evening gale;I see the holy beauty of thy faceIn the strange beauty of yon sunset cloud;I feel thy breath upon my cheek, as thoughThy spirit in its angel mission o'erThe darkened earth, stooped from its glorious flightTo whisper hope and comfort to my bruisedAnd broken spirit. Can it be? Ah yes,O'er this lone spot thy blight and guardian wingsAre hovering, and at night thy angel-armsEnfold again the loved of earth, and guardFrom coming ills the children of thy heartIt must be so, for oh, I know that thisBlest presence is thine own. Thy spirit glidesAround me at the morning, noon, and eve,And at the solemn midnight, and I thankThy God and mine, that I am not alone.

Berford, April 12th, 1851.