miscellaneous poems.
133
And Mary sat with me within the door,
For she the wintry months had lingered o'er,
Brooding with moody lips—mute, startful, hot—
A maniac look—that tale had o'er her shot.
I turned upon the sufferer to look—
Her frame with all-unwonted tremors shook,
And the long-absent blood rushed to her cheek;
She wept—oh! did I dream?—My Mary, speak,
I cried.—She met my gaze
With all the fondness of our happier days.
My husband, murmured she; my child, my child!
Lay me with him! then, kissing me, she smiled,
And, bending her meek head upon my breast,
So died.—I laid her where she prayed to rest.
For she the wintry months had lingered o'er,
Brooding with moody lips—mute, startful, hot—
A maniac look—that tale had o'er her shot.
I turned upon the sufferer to look—
Her frame with all-unwonted tremors shook,
And the long-absent blood rushed to her cheek;
She wept—oh! did I dream?—My Mary, speak,
I cried.—She met my gaze
With all the fondness of our happier days.
My husband, murmured she; my child, my child!
Lay me with him! then, kissing me, she smiled,
And, bending her meek head upon my breast,
So died.—I laid her where she prayed to rest.
And through the pathless prairies, unseen
'Till now, by man, a wanderer I've been.
Each year I seek their grave. Stranger, I pray
That soon my aged bones in peace may lay
With theirs so loved. ****
'Till now, by man, a wanderer I've been.
Each year I seek their grave. Stranger, I pray
That soon my aged bones in peace may lay
With theirs so loved. ****
