THE FATHER AND HIS CHILD.
49
Hath folded in its bosom the fair form
To be returned no more; when the sad train
Of mourners have departed, every one,
And left him in his desolate home alone;
And all the agony, so long pent-up
Within his soul, bursts forth—and as he clasps
His orphaned children to his bleeding heart,
A tenderness he knew not of before,
Towards them fills all his soul, until he deems
Their mother's spirit watches from above,
Speaking unto his own, of those loved ones,
So helpless and so innocent; he feels
A comfort even in wretchedness; lie sees
Their mother's beauty on each brow; he hears
Her voice in every lisping tone; and turns
Involuntarily to meet the eyes
Cold, cold alas! in death! and then the tide
Of his strong feelings, separated once,
Now pours itself along in one broad stream
Of concentrated and unwasting power!—
O, sacred be such feelings; there is less
Of earth than heaven in them!
To be returned no more; when the sad train
Of mourners have departed, every one,
And left him in his desolate home alone;
And all the agony, so long pent-up
Within his soul, bursts forth—and as he clasps
His orphaned children to his bleeding heart,
A tenderness he knew not of before,
Towards them fills all his soul, until he deems
Their mother's spirit watches from above,
Speaking unto his own, of those loved ones,
So helpless and so innocent; he feels
A comfort even in wretchedness; lie sees
Their mother's beauty on each brow; he hears
Her voice in every lisping tone; and turns
Involuntarily to meet the eyes
Cold, cold alas! in death! and then the tide
Of his strong feelings, separated once,
Now pours itself along in one broad stream
Of concentrated and unwasting power!—
O, sacred be such feelings; there is less
Of earth than heaven in them!
