MY CHILD

by: John Pierpont (1785-1866)

CANNOT make him dead!

His fair sunshiny head

Is ever bounding round my study chair;

Yet, when my eyes, now dim

With tears, I turn to him,

The vision vanishes -- he is not there!

 

I walk my parlor floor,

And through the open door

I hear a footfall on the chamber stair;

I'm stepping toward the hall

to give the boy a call;

And then bethink me that -- he is not there!

 

I thread the crowded street;

A satchelled lad I meet,

With the same beaming eyes and colored hair:

And, as he's running by,

Follow him with my eye,

Scarcely believing that -- he is not there!

 

I know his face is hid

Under the coffin-lid;

Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair;

My hand that marble felt;

O'er it in prayer I knelt;

Yet my heart whispers that -- he is not there!

 

I cannot make him dead!

When passing by the bed,

So long watched over with parental care,

My spirit and my eye

Seek it inquiringly,

Before the thought comes that -- he is not there!

 

When, at the cool, gray break

Of day, from sleep I wake,

With my first breathing of the morning air

My soul goes up, with joy,

To Him who gave my boy,

Then comes the sad thought that -- he is not there!

 

When at the day's calm close,

Before we seek repose,

I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer,

Whate'er I may be saying,

I am, in spirit, praying

For our boy's spirit, though -- he is not there!

 

Not there! Where, then, is he?

The form I used to see

Was but the raimant that he used to wear;

The grave that now doth press

Upon that cast-off dress,

Is but his wardrobe locked; -- he is not there!

 

He lives! In all the past

He lives; nor, to the last,

Of seeing him again will I despair;

In dreams I see him now;

And, on his angel brow,

I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!"

 

Yes, we all live to God!

Father, thy chastening rod

So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,

That, in the spirit-land,

Meeting at thy right hand,

'Twill be our heaven to find -- that he is there!

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