Anonymous, The fourth progressive reader (1871)
“ How could he mark thee for the silent tomb,My proud boy, Absalom! [144] 2. Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chillAs to my bosom I have tried to press thee.How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,Like a rich harpstring, yearning [350] to caress thee,And hear thy sweet “My father!” from these dumbAnd cold lips, Absalom! 3. But death is on thee. I shall hear the gushOf music, and the voices of the young;And life will pass me in the mantling [351] blush,And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;—But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt comeTo meet me, Absalom! ”
