Poems (Eliza Gabriella Lewis)/The Consumptive

For works with similar titles, see The Consumptive.
4532920Poems — The ConsumptiveEliza Gabriella Lewis

I cannot rest with a breaking heart,
Till I rest within my grave;
Vain is the leech's healing art,
He hath no power to save.

I am passing to that "better land"
Where the weariest soul hath peace;
Kind friends, why pray to stay the hand
That bids my torture cease?

Oh! bring me to my Savior's love,
"Father, who art in Heaven,"
And raise my erring soul above
The love to which 'twas given.

Her lips, half parted, were in prayer,
Low bent the graceful head;
Her words they seemed to echo there,
E'en when her soul had fled.

The story, 'twas a simple one.
Of loving feelings borne,
Till passion's own intensity
Had the young dreamer worn.

In silence and in solitude
It preyed within her breast,
A secret guarded faithfully,
And scarce to Heaven confessed.

There was one mourner at her tomb,
A stranger seemed he here;
All marvell'd how his strong frame shook,
When standing by her bier.

And when the earth had closed her in,
And the last prayer was said,
They heard him mutter, "Would that I
Were buried with the dead!"

None knew him but the aged man
Who wept above his child.
And saw in him a neighbor's son—
A reckless youth and wild—

Companion of her childhood's years,—
Lovers, 'twas said, in youth;
Alas! for man's inconstancy,
For woman's dying truth.