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 | Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood |  |
260
THE SHUNAMITE.
“Is it well with those thou lovest?
Is thy husband safe? thy child?
Pale, and lone, and sad, thou rovest!
Speak!” he said, in accents mild.
Is thy husband safe? thy child?
Pale, and lone, and sad, thou rovest!
Speak!” he said, in accents mild.
Agony and Faith were blending
In the mother's trembling soul,
Human, heavenly thoughts, contending,
O'er her troubled spirit roll.
In the mother's trembling soul,
Human, heavenly thoughts, contending,
O'er her troubled spirit roll.
Pale in death, her darling boy
In that darken'd dwelling lay,
Blooming late with love and joy,
Now a soulless shape of clay.
In that darken'd dwelling lay,
Blooming late with love and joy,
Now a soulless shape of clay.
Quivering with her deep emotion,
All in vain her cold lips part;
But the still strength of devotion
Calms, at last, her heaving heart.
All in vain her cold lips part;
But the still strength of devotion
Calms, at last, her heaving heart.
261
Lifting to unclouded heaven
Eyes whose tears she may not quell,—
Be her moment's doubt forgiven!—
Low she murmur'd, “It is well!”
Eyes whose tears she may not quell,—
Be her moment's doubt forgiven!—
Low she murmur'd, “It is well!”
| Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood | |