Gone Before

(IN MEMORY OF A PUPIL)


            Thou art but gone before -
            Gone to that unknown shore
Toward which my feet are journeying swiftly on
            Thou hast but laid thy head
            First with the dreamless dead,
I, too, shall come, and share thy rest anon.

            Methinks 'twas sweet to die,
            Ere childhood's purity
Had been polluted by sin's withering breath;
            Ere Care's pale, haggard mien
            Thy laughing eye had seen,
Or thou hadst wept beside the bed of death!

            We weep - yet thou art blest!
            We mourn - but thou'rt at rest!
Well may we weep, yet, lost one, not for thee!
            Not that thy race is run,
            Thy brief life-journey done,
And thou departed with thy Lord to be.

            O no! - yet we may weep,
            That sin, so strong, so deep
A root within our tempted souls should have;
            That we, with mortal fear,
            Still trembling, doubting here,
Should cling to Earth in terror of the grave!

            To Earth, whose very bloom
            Speaks of the dust, the tomb, -
Whose fairest blossoms round our footsteps die, -
            Whose hopes are fraught with fears, -
            Whose smiles are washed with tears, -
Whose sweetest songs are burdened with a sigh!

            Sleep on, thou early blest!
            No cares can mar thy rest,
No years of grief and trial are for thee;
            No blighted hopes, no fears,
            No wasted, sin-cursed years -
Joy for thee, little one, thou'rt free-aye, free!

            Now with the peaceful dead
            Lay we thy beauteous head,
No mourner's dirge for thee shall chanted be!
            So may we rest at last,
            When all our toils are past,
And rise to tune an angel's harp with thee!

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

Pamela S. Vining, also known by her pseudonym J. C. Yule, was an English poet whose work was recognized in the 19th century. Despite her significant contribution to English poetry, detailed information about her life, including her birth and death dates, remains elusive. She remains a noteworthy figure in the canon of English literature for her emotive and thought-provoking poetry.

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

Sunset

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule), Simple Poetry

Abraham Lincoln.

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule), Simple Poetry

Go, Dream No More

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule), Simple Poetry

The World's Day.

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule), Simple Poetry

English

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Brother, Rest.

IN MEMORY OF THE REV. J. E. V.


Rest, brother, rest! Thy eyes no more shall weep
    O'er unhealed anguish and unconquered sin;
Thy peaceful slumber, tranquilized and deep,
    Is marred no more by Earth's discordant din.
Calm are the skies above thy quiet bed,
    And calm is Earth in Summer-glories dressed,
And cool and sweet the fresh mould richly spread
    Above thy folded hands and peaceful breast.

Oh, could my voice thy placid slumber break,
    And win thee back to mortal scenes again, -
Bid thee, unblamed, thy heavenly paths forsake,
    Once more to walk with me 'mid care and pain,
I could not, dare not breathe the word, for thou
    Hast long enough toiled where the dark curse lies
On all Earth's fairest fruitage; - brother, now
   ...

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

Mary

            Thus early with the dead -
    Thou of the young, fair brow, the laughing eye,
            The light and joyous tread, -
Mary, we little thought thou would'st be first to die!

            A little while ago
    We saw thee first in girlhood's early bloom;
            Now thou art lying low,
Thy pale hands crossed in slumber, silent in the tomb!

            Ah me! 'tis hard to speak
    Of thee as of the dead - the pale, still dead! -
            'Tis hard to think the b'eak,
Stern blast of winter sweeps above thy low, cold bed!

            *            *            *            *            *

            Thus early with thy God!
    'Twas a rich boon He sent whose loving voice
            Called thee to His abode,
'Mid the s...

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

At Home

I thought it pleasant when a manly sire
Weary of foreign travel, at the door
Of his own cottage left his dusty staff,
And entering in, sat down with those he loved
Beside the hearth of home; - and pleasant, too,
When a fond mother, absent for a day,
At eve returning, from the sunset hill
That overlooked her cot, descried her boys
Flying with joyous feet along the path
To greet her coming; and, with clasping hands
Of baby welcome, lead her through the gate
Of her sweet home.

                                    Pleasant I deemed it, too,
When a young man, a wanderer for years
From those he loved, at length sat down again
With sire and mother in the twilight hour
At home; - and when a gentle daughter, long
From mother's kiss and father's blessing far,<...

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

The Old Church Choir

    I am slowly treading the mazy track
That leadeth, through sunshine and shadows, back -
Through freshest meads where the dews yet cling
As erst they did to each lowly thing,
Where flowers bloom and where streamlets flow
With the tender music of long ago -
To the far-off past that, through mists of tears,
In its spring time loveliness still appears,
And wooes me back to the gleaming shore
Of sunny years that return no more.

    And to night, all weary, and sad, and lone,
I return in thought to those bright years flown,
Whose lingering sweetness, e'en yet, I feel
Like the breath of flower-scents over me steal
I am treading o'er mounds where the dead repose, -
I am stirring the dust of life's perished rose, -
I am rustling the withered leaves that lie

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

A Song Before Grief.

Sorrow, my friend,
When shall you come again?
The wind is slow, and the bent willows send
Their silvery motions wearily down the plain.
The bird is dead
That sang this morning through the summer rain!

Sorrow, my friend,
I owe my soul to you.
And if my life with any glory end
Of tenderness for others, and the words are true,
Said, honoring, when I'm dead, -
Sorrow, to you, the mellow praise, the funeral
wreath, are due.

And yet, my friend,
When love and joy are strong,
Your terrible visage from my sight I rend
With glances to blue heaven. Hovering along,
By mine your shadow led,
"Away!" I shriek, "nor dare to work my new-sprung mercies wrong!"

Still, you are near:
Who can your care withstand?
When deep eternity shall l...

Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

Death

'Tis but to fold the arms in peace,
    To close the tear-dimmed, aching eye,
From sin and suffering to cease,
    And wake to sinless life on high.

'Tis but to leave the dusty way
    Our pilgrim feet so long have pressed,
And passon angel-wings away,
    Forever with the Lord to rest.

'Tis but with noiseless step to glide
    Behind the curtain's mystic screen
That from our mortal gaze doth hide
    The glories of the world unseen.

Tis but to sleep a passing hour,
    Serene as cradled infants sleep;
Then wake in glory and in power,
    An endless Sabbath day to keep.

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)