A POEM BY JOB HARMAN

of Liberty township, Steelville, Missouri

1837--1919

[Caption from the Mirror newspaper Jan. 19, 1967]

(At the request of relatives and friends, we are reprinting the following item which last appeared in the Mirror on November 24, 1955)

We are grateful to Joe Benton who brings us the following bit of verse, taken from an old, old clipping from a Steelville newspaper which has been in the possession of his family for a good half -century. The poem and introduction concerns the death of Bent Edwards, whose grave, in accordance with his dying wish, became the origin of the present Edwards Cemetery in the Cherry valley community. The death of Mr. Bent Edwards occurred some 75 years ago.

Some years since, a young man of this county, who had been an enthusiastic hunter, died and just before death requested his father to bury him at an old deer lick, where he had often watched through the twilight for the cautious deer. His wish was regarded and his lone grave may still be seen under the spreading oaks of the silent forest.--Ed


The young Hunter's Grave

By Job Harman

Low lying on his bed of pain, his pulses faint and few
"Grant my request," he said, and then I'll bid you all adieu.
"Father, you know the old deer lick where many summer eves
I've heard the stealthy tramp of deer among the forest leaves.
"There I have watched with eager eyes, in that deep solitude,
And listened to the wind's low sighs, in contemplating mood.

"I've seen them come, I've seen them fall, those monarchs of the waste,
The antlered hart, so proud and tall, and fawns so sly and chaste.
"While pulsed the life blood through my veins in boyhood's brightest day,
And free and playful as the fawns, life's morning passed away.
"Alas, my days are numbered now, I pass within the vale,
Though only in the prime of life my flesh and heart now fail.

"Consumption, that fell foe of man, doth lay me in the dust;
I yield to fate, I yield to God, and in his mercy trust.
"Inter me at the old deer lick say, father, do you hear?
There let me sleep my last long sleep-- the place to me so dear;
"Where fawns shall gambol o'er my grave and winds around me roar
And branches green above me wave till time shall be no more."

End

Note: Job Harman was my great grandfather.
. . . . . Jim


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