Edward Henry Bickersteth (1825-1906 / England)

I still would pen some hurried lines
To ask thy weal—my friend—of thee,
Although thy memory's faintest chords
May wake no thought which tells of me.
Forbid that I should e'er perplex
One moment of thy bright career,
Yet pardon woman's weaker sex,
And wipe from woman's eye the tear,
I dreamt I saw thee wan and pale:
Ah! 'twas a dream I would forget,—
Yet still its hauntings make me quail;
My heart's pulse fails—mine eyes are wet.
Ah! say, does pain or sorrow dwell
Around thy couch—thy peaceful hearth;
Has dire disease or phantom spell
Scattered its mildew o'er thy path?
Yet should it be too much to ask
One line my fainting heart to cheer,
Forget the all-unwelcome task,
And be remembrance buried here!