ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG MATRON.
At opening morn I saw a blissful scene
As if on earth a ray of Eden shone,
A lovely form with countenance serene,
Which bending from the pure, domestic throne,
Pour'd forth a sacred hymn in warbling tone,—
One beauteous boy was sporting at her side,
And one in cradle dreams, like bud new-blown,
While o'er her varying cheek in smiles would glide
A guardian angel's love, blent with a mother's pride.
At evening hour I look'd,—but wo was there!
On that young breast the spoiler's hand was laid,
Love's fondest hopes were lost in deep despair,
And horror brooded there in darkest shade;
The dews of pain had drench'd that sunny braid
Of clustering hair and dimm'd the eye's bright flame,
While clinging to the hand that lent no aid
Those cherub infants call'd their mother's name,
And wept in wondering wo, that no fond answer came.
Again I look'd,—and in the house of God
Where late she stood, her solemn vows to pay,
Choosing the narrow path her Saviour trod,
With marble brow the lovely sleeper lay,—
They bare her gently to her bed of clay,
And smooth'd the turf while tears fell down like rain,
But the young mother to a brighter day
Soar'd high,—above the flight of care and pain
To wear the spotless robe in her Redeemer's train.