Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ON THE DEATH OF THE TWO DAUGHTERS OF MR. JAMES MUIR, by JANET HAMILTON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ON THE DEATH OF THE TWO DAUGHTERS OF MR. JAMES MUIR, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Fair garden of my life, my children's home
Last Line: "where blossoms never die—"" to heaven our home."
Alternate Author Name(s): Hamilton, Janet Thompson
Subject(s): Daughters; Death - Children; Fathers; Fathers & Daughters; Heaven; Mourning; Death - Babies; Paradise; Bereavement


FAIR garden of my life, my children's home,
With what full-hearted joy I used to come,
And there within the dear enclosure meet
My beauteous blossoms—there with fondness greet
My tender olive plants when ranged around
The board, with love and peace and blessing crowned.
O ye fair blossoms of my life and love,
I deemed not the dark cloud that lowered above
The garden of my life would burst in storm
First on thy fair young head and graceful form,
My new-blown rose, just opening to the day,
While yet the dew on thy green branches lay,
Struck by the fever simoom's scorching breath—
Laid withered, prostrate, in the dust of death.
Yet I, while weeping o'er thy buried dust,
Have, in the faith of an immortal trust,
A hope to meet thee in that blissful home,
Where sorrow, death, and tears shall never come.

Alas! not long my vision of delight
Had vanished, when again the deadly blight
Fell on my garden. I had nourished there
A budding lily—fragrant, sweet, and fair—
Its snowy petals sparkling with the dew
Of life's young morn. Near to my heart it grew;
But, ah! the spoiler came and tore
From my fond heart, that bleeds for evermore,
My tender lily, drooping in the storm
That bowed to death her fair and fragile form.

I mourn my vanished flowers, my garden's pride;
Pleasant in life, death did not long divide
The sister blossoms, blighted in their bloom,
Now in the dark recesses of the tomb
Laid side by side, in calm and dreamless sleep.
My God, thy will be done! Yet, while I weep,
I fain would wipe the tears that often flow
Down thy pale cheeks, dear partner of my woe—
The tender mother—she who reared with care
Her budding flow'rets into blossoms fair.
They faded on her bosom—passed the bourne
From whence to us they never will return;
But we to them in God's good time will come—
Where blossoms never die—" to Heaven our home."





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