 | The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey |  |
Poor lamb! she wandered in her mind, 'twas clear;
But soon the piteous murmur died away,
And quiet in her father's arms she lay:
They their dead burthen had resigned to take
The living so near lost. For her dear sake,
And one at home, he armed himself to bear
His misery like a man. With tender care,
Doffing his coat her shivering form to fold—
His neighbour bearing that which felt no cold—
He clasped her close; and so, with little said,
Homeward they bore the living and the dead.
From Ambrose Gray's poor cottage, all that night,
Shone fitfully a little shifting light,
Above—below: for all were watchers there,
Save one sound sleeper. Her, parental care,
Parental watchfulness, availed not now.
But in the young survivor's throbbing brow
And wandering eyes delirious fever burned,
And all night long from side to side she turned,
Piteously 'plaining like a wounded dove,
With now and then the murmur—“She won't move!”
And lo! when morning, as in mockery, bright
Shone on that pillow—passing strange the sight—
That young head's raven hair was streaked with white!
No idle fiction this. Such things have been,
We know. And now I tell what I have seen.
But soon the piteous murmur died away,
And quiet in her father's arms she lay:
They their dead burthen had resigned to take
The living so near lost. For her dear sake,
And one at home, he armed himself to bear
His misery like a man. With tender care,
Doffing his coat her shivering form to fold—
208
He clasped her close; and so, with little said,
Homeward they bore the living and the dead.
From Ambrose Gray's poor cottage, all that night,
Shone fitfully a little shifting light,
Above—below: for all were watchers there,
Save one sound sleeper. Her, parental care,
Parental watchfulness, availed not now.
But in the young survivor's throbbing brow
And wandering eyes delirious fever burned,
And all night long from side to side she turned,
Piteously 'plaining like a wounded dove,
With now and then the murmur—“She won't move!”
And lo! when morning, as in mockery, bright
Shone on that pillow—passing strange the sight—
That young head's raven hair was streaked with white!
No idle fiction this. Such things have been,
We know. And now I tell what I have seen.
Life struggled long with death in that small frame
But it was strong, and conquered. All became
As it had been with the poor family—
All—saving that which never more might be:
There was an empty place—they were but three.
But it was strong, and conquered. All became
As it had been with the poor family—
All—saving that which never more might be:
There was an empty place—they were but three.
| The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey | |