Filioae Dulcissimae. An Easter Offering Poem by Henry Alford

Say wilt thou think of me when I'm away,
Borne from the threshold and laid in the clay,
Past and forgotten for many a day?

Wilt thou remember me when I am gone,
Further each year from thy vision withdrawn,
Thou in the sunset, and I in the dawn?

Wilt thou remember me, when thou shalt see
Daily and nightly encompassing thee
Hundreds of others, but nothing of me?

All that I ask is a gem in thine eye,
Sitting and thinking when no one is by,
Thus looked he on me--thus rung his reply.

Ah, but in vain is the boon that I seek:
Time is too strong, or remembrance too weak:
Soon yields to darkness the evening's last streak.

'Tis not to die, though the path be obscure:
Grand is the conflict, the victory sure:
Vast though the peril, there's One can secure:

'Tis not to land in the region unknown,
Thronged by bright spirits, all strange and alone,
Waiting the doom from the Judge on the Throne:

But 'tis to feel the cold touch of decay
'Tis to look back on the wake of one's way
Fading and vanishing day after day:

This is the bitterness none can be spared:
This, the oblivion the greatest have shared:
This, the true death for ambition prepared.

Thousands are round us, toiling as we,
Living and loving,--whose lot is to be
Passed and forgotten, like waves on the sea.

Once in a lifetime is uttered a word
That doth not vanish as soon as 'tis heard:
Once in an age is humanity stirred.

Once in a century springs forth a deed
From the dark bands of forgetfulness freed,
Destined to shine, and to help, and to lead:

Yet not e'en thus escape we our lot:
The deed lasts in memory, the doer is not:
The word liveth on, but the voice is forgot.

Who knows the forms of the mighty of old?
Can bust or can portrait the spirit enfold,
Or the light of the eye by description be told?

Nay, even He who our ransom became,
Bearing the Cross and despising the shame
Earning a Name above every name,--

They who had handled Him while He was here,
Kept they in memory His lineaments clear,--
Could they command them at will to appear?

They who had heard Him, and lived on His voice,
Say, could they always recall at their choice
The tone and the cadence which made them rejoice?

Be we content then to pass into shade,
Visage and voice in oblivion laid,
And live in the light that our actions have made.

Yet do thou think of me, child of my soul:--
When the dark waves of forgetfulness roll,
Part may survive in the wreck of the whole.

Still let me count on the tear in thine eye,
``Thus bent he o'er me, thus went his reply,''
Sitting and thinking when no one is by.