 | The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey |  |
They lifted her from out her watery bed.
Its covering gone, the lovely little head
Hung like a broken snowdrop all aside,
And one small hand. The mother's shawl was tied,
Leaving that free, about the child's small form,
As was her last injunction—“fast and warm”—
Too well obeyed—too fast! A fatal hold
Affording to the scrag by a thick fold,
That caught and pinned her in the river's bed,
While through the reckless water overhead
Her life-breath bubbled up.
Its covering gone, the lovely little head
Hung like a broken snowdrop all aside,
And one small hand. The mother's shawl was tied,
Leaving that free, about the child's small form,
As was her last injunction—“fast and warm”—
Too well obeyed—too fast! A fatal hold
Affording to the scrag by a thick fold,
That caught and pinned her in the river's bed,
While through the reckless water overhead
Her life-breath bubbled up.
“She might have lived,
Struggling like Lizzy,” was the thought that rived
The wretched mother's heart when she knew all,
“But for my foolishness about that shawl.
And Master would have kept them back the day;
But I was wilful—driving them away
In such wild weather!”
Struggling like Lizzy,” was the thought that rived
The wretched mother's heart when she knew all,
207
And Master would have kept them back the day;
But I was wilful—driving them away
In such wild weather!”
Thus the tortured heart
Unnaturally against itself takes part,
Driving the sharp edge deeper of a woe
Too deep already. They had raised her now,
And parting the wet ringlets from her brow,
To that, and the cold cheek, and lips as cold,
The father glued his warm ones, ere they rolled
Once more the fatal shawl, her winding-sheet,
About the precious clay. One heart still beat
Warmed by his heart's blood. To his only child
He turned him, but her piteous moaning mild
Pierced him afresh—and now she knew him not.
“Mother!” she murmured, “who says I forgot?
Mother! indeed, indeed, I kept fast hold,
And tied the shawl quite close—she can't be cold—
But she won't move—we slipt—I don't know how—
But I held on—and I'm so weary now—
And it's so dark and cold—oh, dear! oh, dear!—
And she won't move—if daddy was but here!”
Unnaturally against itself takes part,
Driving the sharp edge deeper of a woe
Too deep already. They had raised her now,
And parting the wet ringlets from her brow,
To that, and the cold cheek, and lips as cold,
The father glued his warm ones, ere they rolled
Once more the fatal shawl, her winding-sheet,
About the precious clay. One heart still beat
Warmed by his heart's blood. To his only child
He turned him, but her piteous moaning mild
Pierced him afresh—and now she knew him not.
“Mother!” she murmured, “who says I forgot?
Mother! indeed, indeed, I kept fast hold,
And tied the shawl quite close—she can't be cold—
But she won't move—we slipt—I don't know how—
But I held on—and I'm so weary now—
And it's so dark and cold—oh, dear! oh, dear!—
And she won't move—if daddy was but here!”
| The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey | |