 | Poems |  |
34
ON THE DEATH OF MY DAUGHTER.
I
And thou art dead, that wert so dear to me!The treasured idol of my fondest love,
Thou who didst seem a seraph on my knee,
That sleeping dreamed of starry lands above,
Unconscious of the earth that cradled thee,
But only resting like a wearied dove,
Which for a moment lighting on the green,
Just coos, and looks around, then never more is seen.
35
II
And thou art dead!—and one small lock of hairIs all I now can to my bosom press,
And many a hour I've sat in mute despair,
Gazing in tears upon that lovely tress:
I tried to blend Death with a thing so fair,
But, 'twas in vain,—the grave's deep dreariness
Would mingle with it not; nor can I now
Think on that lock, and Death, it conjures up thy brow.
III
But oh! the night thou diedst I can recall:Thy mother on my shoulder leant to weep;
Her bending shadow fell upon the wall;
And when Death came, so noiseless did he creep
That we heard not his muffled footstep fall:
E'en I, who held thee, deemed thou didst but sleep.
Thy slow pulse ceased, but no one could tell when;
If ever silence listened, breathless, it was then.
36
IV
There thou didst lie, a sinless child at rest,Hushed as the march of starry studded night,
Cold as the dew closed in the rose's breast,
Silent as darkness stealing o'er the light,
Mute as a wearied bird upon its nest,
Calm as a rainbow fading from the sight,
Still as a halcyon, that upon the deep
Folds slowly its white wings, and fearless falls asleep.
V
And I have heard thy voice in the low wind,And caught thine accents in the murmuring stream;
And in the rustling grass where I reclined,
And midst old woods, whose tall trees seem to dream:
I've seen thy face in clouds, and thy locks twined
In the loose silver of their skirts did seem;
Bee, bird, a blossom, streams, a leaf, a sound,—
There have been moods of mind when thou in these wert found.
37
VI
And I have thought of lands beyond the grave,Celestial fields where spotless angels roam;
Of Siloa's stream, where flowers eternal wave,
Of music rolling from the etherial dome,
And Heaven's own floor which stars resplendent pave;
Then have I turned me to my earthly home,
Now desolate!—Oh, may I be forgiven,
If too much love for thee hath made me envy Heaven.
VII
When the hushed footfall of the voiceless nightPressed the dim clouds, and stole down from the sky,
In the dim splendour of the stars' pale light,
Hath thy fair form in silence glided by;
And oft it has seemed present to my sight,
When dark-winged sleep hung brooding o'er my eye:
In visions, my lost child, I've seemed to press thee,
And hugged the empty dark, dreaming I did caress thee.
38
VIII
The spring brings to my mind thy growing charms,The Summer, all thy beauty in its bloom,
Autumn, supporting my then aged arms;
The dreary Winter, only brings the tomb;
The sobbing wind my too fond heart alarms;
I think of thee, sleeping amid the gloom;
Then I forget, again, that thou art dead,
And so put out my hand, to feel thy little head.
| Poems | |