Tributary Lines To The Memory Of George Whitehead Poem by Thomas Blackah

Dear comrade, whose unhappy fate we mourn,
So soon from thy domestic circle torn;
By cruel death’s cold, grim, relentless hand,
To prove the secrets of the spirit land.

Thy form now lies unconsciously at rest,
Which dear, loved, little prattlers once caress’d;
Thy smile no more thy presence will illume,
Thy voice is hushed forever in the tomb.

Sleep! dear one, sleep! no more the ills of life,
Nor vain commotion – offspring of mad strife,
Nor racking pain – inflammatory throes,
Disturb thy rest, or break thy calm repose.

Insatiate monster! Mortal’s direst foe,
Whose callous nature smiles at human woe;
Why blast the instrument which succour gained,
And leave the tender offspring unsustained?

Thy life’s short dream is now forever o’er,
Round yon void hearth thy voice will sound no more;
In vain the tears – the bitter tears may fall,
They cannot thy long cherish’d form recall.

The hopes once centred in thy chequered life,
Which charmed thy children, and which cheered thy wife;
Are all destroyed by death’s destructive blast,
And grace the pages of the dreamy past.

Though now departed, yet, methinks I hear
Thy well-known voice th’ immortal Blair revere;
The “grave”, which oft thy feelings overawed,
Is now thy cold, long, lifeless abode.

No more we meet on life’s frail stormy strand,
Yet in the portals of the deathless spirit land,
In bonds of love united we may be,
Through endless ages of eternity.

March 15th 1872