Bohemian Poems, Ancient and Modern/Consolation (Wratislaw)

For works with similar titles, see Consolation.
3268065Bohemian Poems, Ancient and Modern — Consolation1849Albert Henry Wratislaw


WEEP no more, Mother, weep no more for me,
Though I am parted from thy dear caress!
Weep no more, Mother, weep no more for me,
Though thy full heart o’erflow with tenderness!

Weep not for me! the green grass o’er me groweth,
But I upon a peaceful couch am laid;
Weep not for me! the rude wind o’er me bloweth,
But tempests cannot harm the sleeping maid.

Weep not for me! though e’en thy dearest voice
Can send no tidings to my deafen’d ear—
O thou less happy, why, when I rejoice,
For the more happy flows the sorrowing tear?

Inquire of Memory, bid her back recall
The bygone hours, when I was with you still;
Tells she not tales of woe and suffering all,
And pain, that taught and purified the will?

’Tis even so, then put away thy sorrow,
And weep not evermore beside the tomb,
But let the sable garb of mourning borrow
Bright hues from that bright future yet to come!

O mother, thou art still upon thy way,
That pilgrim way, that I have travell’d o’er!—
O why should grief thy onward footsteps stay
Towards the same home, where I have gone before?

Weep not for me! ’tis calm and stillness here,
And quiet is repose and slumber sweet,
But Life is full of noise and doubt and fear,
And hearts that ache, and sore and weary feet.

My journey’s ended, and my task is done,
No sorrow more for me, no weariness,
Though I have chang’d the golden glorious sun
For the damp grave and death’s unloveliness.

Yes! though the world is dark upon mine eye,
And all fond faces now are far away,
Yet is there One, whose perfect sympathy
Doth still amidst corruption with me stay.

That Deathless One, who put on Death awhile,
And three dark days, where I am sleeping, slept,
That Death itself might wear a gentle smile,
The comfort of the weeper for the wept.

What though I feel no more your clasp around me?
The everlasting arms embrace me now;
What though the icy chains of Death have bound me?
The token of release hath bath’d my brow.

O think not of me as for ever gone,
As hearing nothing, nothing answering,
Cold to the tonch, henceforth to dwell alone,
In dark and narrow cell inhabiting.

Think of me thus, as sleeping without sorrow,
While Faith and Hope are sleeping at my side,
Till the glad world adore that glorious morrow,
When Love himself shall come to claim his Bride.

Think of me thus, as for my dear ones waiting,
Gone on before them to a better home,
No tears, no griefs, no cares upon me grating,
To jar the soft, sweet, music of the tomb.

O it is sweet, that soul-caught melody,
That still small whisper from the Infinite,
Which telleth, Hope but sleeps and cannot die,
Which singeth in the darkness songs of light!

List to it then, and weep for me no more,
Lest earthly sighs should spoil its sweet accord,
And mar the echo from that distant shore,
Where all things singing praise their God and Lord!