The Ladies' Garland

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.
(BY MRS. HEMANS)

Forget them not!—tho' now their name,
Be but a mournful sound,
Tho' by the hearth its utterance claim
A stillness round.

Tho' for their sakes this earth no more
As it hath been may be,
And shadows, never marked before,
Brood o'er each tree;

And tho' their image dim the sky,
Yet, yet forget them not!

Nor, where their love and life went by,
Forsake the spot!

They have a breathing influence there,
A charm, not elsewhere found:
Sad—yet it sanctifies the air,
The stream—the ground.

Then, tho' the wind an altered tone
Thro' the young foliage bear,
Tho' every flower, of something gone,
A tinge may wear.

Oh! say it not!—no fruitless grief
Thus in their presence felt,
A record links to every leaf
There, where they dwelt.

Still trace the path which knew their tread,
Still tend their garden bower.
And call them back, the holy dead,
To each lone hour!

The holy Dead! oh! blest we are,
That we may name them so,
And to their spirits look afar,
Through all our woe!

Blest, that the things they loved on earth,
As relics we may hold,
Which wake sweet thoughts of parted worth,
By springs untold!

Blest, that a deep and chastening power
Thus o'er our souls is given,
If but to bird, or song, or flower,
Yet all for Heaven!