THE FUNERAL OF A MOTHER.
I saw the soul's big tear in manhood's eye,—
O'er youth's fair cheek, the shade of filial wo,
And heard sad echoing to the clouded sky,
The mournful knell in dirge-like measures flow.
And there she lay, for whom such grief awoke,
Rent from the world while all around was fair—
Ere from her brow the flush of health had broke,
Or wasting years had worn their trace of care.—
Oh God!—if 'tis a bitter thing to die,
To creeping age, neglected and forlorn,
What must it be where every tender tie
Is fresh and clustering in its balmy morn?
Yes,—there she lay! and round her coffin'd bed
Burst forth the piercing wail of infant woes,
While "Mother!—Mother!" fill'd the ear with dread,
As from those nurslings' ruby lips it rose.—
And was there aught amid that hearsed gloom,
In youth's fond tear, or manhood's deeper groan,
In smitten beauty, or the yawning tomb,
That smote the soul like their wild, wailing tone?
For who to them the heart's deep void shall fill,
Watch o'er their cradle couch with sleepless care,
Lure the first lisp,—and sooth the fancied ill,
Check the young fault, and bless the trembling prayer?
A Mother's love!—Go ask the buds that live
By heaven's pure dew on yonder parching hill,
Ask the pale flower that summer suns revive,
For some faint emblem of that holy thrill;
The fickle dews may shun the plant that pines,
The lofty Sun forget the flowery glen,—
A Mother's love with death alone declines,—
And say ye white robed angels—dies it then?