132
miscellaneous poems.
I raised her, and the first low sound
Was, "My dear boy—oh! bring him to me now;
Let us together to our Maker bow.
Are we not saved? Come husband let us pray!"
And starting from my bosom, where she lay,
Ere I could break to her the dreadful tale.
She saw the murdered child; one bitter wail
Burst from her lips; then quietly she knelt,
And wiped his brow; and his stilled bosom felt,
And gazed on him; alas! her reason passed
E'en as she gazed; upon them both the blast
Had fallen—ever, from that hour,
Speechless, she was—a pale and dying flower
Wrecked by the wintry wind—her form
Felt not the glowing summer's breathing warm;
Yet still she lived, if such can be called breath—
This lingering 'twixt the arms of love and death;
Dead to all here—patient, but still; so still,
That e'en the sufferer's death were lesser ill.
Was, "My dear boy—oh! bring him to me now;
Let us together to our Maker bow.
Are we not saved? Come husband let us pray!"
And starting from my bosom, where she lay,
Ere I could break to her the dreadful tale.
She saw the murdered child; one bitter wail
Burst from her lips; then quietly she knelt,
And wiped his brow; and his stilled bosom felt,
And gazed on him; alas! her reason passed
E'en as she gazed; upon them both the blast
Had fallen—ever, from that hour,
Speechless, she was—a pale and dying flower
Wrecked by the wintry wind—her form
Felt not the glowing summer's breathing warm;
Yet still she lived, if such can be called breath—
This lingering 'twixt the arms of love and death;
Dead to all here—patient, but still; so still,
That e'en the sufferer's death were lesser ill.
And years had passed—alas! she could not die,
But still breathed on—the spring-time now was nigh.
But still breathed on—the spring-time now was nigh.
