THE SAINTED MOTHER.
What see'st thou, parting soul, through falling clay?
Through the deep chasms of time and sickness pale?
What fires the fix'd eye thus with rapture's ray
Mid thy drear passage through the darken'd vale?—
See'st thou their smile who bow the seraph head
In guardian friendship o'er salvation's heirs?—
Is their white wing in sister-welcome spread
To waft thee gently o'er a world of cares?—
Doth melody, unknown to mortal ear,
With full, enchanting tide mellifluent flow?—
The perfect language of that glorious sphere
Which thy meek lip so well essay'd below?—
Come sceptic near this sacred couch, and try
The strength of virtue's panoply, while pain
Uproots of life and love the cherish'd tie
And rends a mother from the mourning train.
Go—king of terrors!—prompt to thin the band
Whose pure monitions guide us to the sky,—
This barbless arrow from thy vengeful hand
But points the christian's triumph,—how to die.
Oh privileged were those who mark'd thee rise
Thou placid victor o'er the spoiler's power!—
Imbibed they not the wisdom of the skies
From the deep lesson of that awful hour?—
Adieu!—we dare not mourn thee save with tears
Of holy gratitude,—raised as thou art
Above the changes of these chastening years,
And blissful number'd with the pure in heart.