 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
209
A LAMENT.
O'er the wide waters of the swelling sea,
Whose mystic music once I loved to hear,
But whose low moaning now must ever be
The voice of death and sorrow to mine ear,
Echoed by many a wild and restless wave,
I pour my wail above a brother's grave.
Whose mystic music once I loved to hear,
But whose low moaning now must ever be
The voice of death and sorrow to mine ear,
Echoed by many a wild and restless wave,
I pour my wail above a brother's grave.
Not on the lap of gentle mother earth,
Whose worn and wearied children come to lay
Their aching heads on her who gave them birth,
Glad to forget life's long and toilsome day—
Not on her quiet bosom didst thou close
Thine eyes, my brother, in their last repose.
Whose worn and wearied children come to lay
Their aching heads on her who gave them birth,
Glad to forget life's long and toilsome day—
Not on her quiet bosom didst thou close
Thine eyes, my brother, in their last repose.
Thine was a death of agony—a brief
And mortal struggle with the foaming deep;
Yet, while we mourn with unavailing grief,
Thou, pillowed on the shifting surge, dost sleep
As tranquilly as if spring's earliest bloom
Was showered in roses on thy early tomb.
And mortal struggle with the foaming deep;
Yet, while we mourn with unavailing grief,
Thou, pillowed on the shifting surge, dost sleep
As tranquilly as if spring's earliest bloom
Was showered in roses on thy early tomb.
I weep for thee; but wherefore? Thou didst drink
One draught of bitterness, then put aside
The cup forever; better thus to sink
Beneath the raging ocean's whelming tide,
Than live till cares had gnawed thy heart away,
And left thee nought to hope for but decay.
One draught of bitterness, then put aside
The cup forever; better thus to sink
Beneath the raging ocean's whelming tide,
Than live till cares had gnawed thy heart away,
And left thee nought to hope for but decay.
210
What is our life? I know not—but I feel
That 'tis a scene of suffering at the best;
Nor know I what is death—yet when I kneel
In prayer to Heaven, I hope that death is rest;
O! then how selfish are the tears we shed
Upon the grave of the untimely dead!
That 'tis a scene of suffering at the best;
Nor know I what is death—yet when I kneel
In prayer to Heaven, I hope that death is rest;
O! then how selfish are the tears we shed
Upon the grave of the untimely dead!
And yet thou wert so full of hope, so young,
Thy visions of the future were so bright,
Joy's mirthful accents ever on thy tongue,
And pleasure lending to thine eye its light—
O! why wert thou thus snatched away, ere truth
Had blent its bitter with the sweet of youth?
Thy visions of the future were so bright,
Joy's mirthful accents ever on thy tongue,
And pleasure lending to thine eye its light—
O! why wert thou thus snatched away, ere truth
Had blent its bitter with the sweet of youth?
It may have been in mercy—it may be
That thou wert taken from the ill to come;
The hollow murmur of the moaning sea
I fain would deem thy welcome to a home;
And though my heart may inly bleed, no more
My wild repinings would I idly pour.
That thou wert taken from the ill to come;
The hollow murmur of the moaning sea
I fain would deem thy welcome to a home;
And though my heart may inly bleed, no more
My wild repinings would I idly pour.
Thou art at rest! the peace for which all pine
Through many an hour of weariness and woe,
Too soon, perhaps, for thy young hopes, is thine:
And, though my selfish tears for thee may flow,
The Power that stays the mighty deep can still
The restless murmurs of my wayward will.
Through many an hour of weariness and woe,
Too soon, perhaps, for thy young hopes, is thine:
And, though my selfish tears for thee may flow,
The Power that stays the mighty deep can still
The restless murmurs of my wayward will.
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |