Poems (McDonald)/Remembrance
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Do not forget me—I would not my name
As a strange language, to your ears became,
But seldom uttered, only heard with sighs,
As harp-string to the moaning wind replies,
Not so, not so!
REMEMBRANCE.
Do not forget me—I would not my name
As a strange language, to your ears became,
But seldom uttered, only heard with sighs,
As harp-string to the moaning wind replies,
Not so, not so!
Speak of me, when the summer day is bright
With glorious sunbeams, and the golden light
Streams through the lattice of my own green bower;
Let me be there in that rejoicing hour
At least in name.
With glorious sunbeams, and the golden light
Streams through the lattice of my own green bower;
Let me be there in that rejoicing hour
At least in name.
Speak of me, when the twilight's purple haze
Shuts each fair prospect from your ardent gaze,
And turning to the quiet joys of home,
Fond memories of departed dear ones come
To stir the heart.
Shuts each fair prospect from your ardent gaze,
And turning to the quiet joys of home,
Fond memories of departed dear ones come
To stir the heart.
Speak of me, when in heaven's blue arch afar,
Shines forth in glory each effulgent star;
Say how I loved their lustre, that my name
May ever dwell amid their hosts of flame
To meet your eyes.
Shines forth in glory each effulgent star;
Say how I loved their lustre, that my name
May ever dwell amid their hosts of flame
To meet your eyes.
Speak of me, when my own sweet garden rose,
On slender stem, in moss-clad beauty blows:
I would be linked with all the flowers that bloom,
Till ye might half forget the cold, dark tomb,
Where I must lie.
On slender stem, in moss-clad beauty blows:
I would be linked with all the flowers that bloom,
Till ye might half forget the cold, dark tomb,
Where I must lie.
Speak of me, when around the winter's hearth,
Young hearts are cheerful with the season's mirth,
And strike the soft guitar I love so well,
And let its chords in some old ballad tell
A tale of me.
Young hearts are cheerful with the season's mirth,
And strike the soft guitar I love so well,
And let its chords in some old ballad tell
A tale of me.
Speak of me not in sorrow, for ye know
To what calm skies and gentle streams I go;
To flowers that fade not, through eternal Spring,
All robed in light, to wear an angel's wing,
An angel's crown.
To what calm skies and gentle streams I go;
To flowers that fade not, through eternal Spring,
All robed in light, to wear an angel's wing,
An angel's crown.
Speak of me, then, with gladness, not with tears;
For when have flitted by a few short years,
Ye too will pass from earthly care and pain,
And we shall meet all joyfully again,
No more to part.
For when have flitted by a few short years,
Ye too will pass from earthly care and pain,
And we shall meet all joyfully again,
No more to part.