Poems (Schiller)/Uncle Joe

UNCLE JOE

Poor Uncle Joe! Long months and years
Have swiftly sped around,
Since friends bedewed with mournful tears
Thy new-made earthen mound.

The fretted marble at thy head
Is growing gray and worn,
And long neglect hath greatly sped
The growth of weed and thorn.

For grief has slept this many a day,
As it e'er does and will;
And nearest kin scarce over stray
Out to thy burial hill.

And yet thou art not quite forgot;
Thy portrait decks my wall,
Thy name and form with tender thought
I often-times recall.

And when the hall of mem'ry fair
Looms up at will of mine,
Full many a picture gleameth there,
Made bright by deed of thine.

But I no longer am the child
You used to love and know,
Whose weary hours you oft beguiled
In the dim long ago.

Ah, no! The years that never pause
In their untiring flight
Have borne me far from where I was
Upon thy sad death-night.

And the life-path that I have trod
Has not been always fair;
For I have felt the Chast'ner's rod,
And bowed 'neath weights of care.

And I have seen my dearest dreams
Reach an untimely goal,
And waves from bitter Marah-streams
Have surged across my soul.

And thus in every mortal's course
The light and shade are blent;
And well it is, if no remorse
For grave misdeeds is sent.

Then rest thee on! I would not call
Thy presence back to earth;
Thou hast but met the fate of all
Who are of mortal birth.
October, 1870.