 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
243
BALLAD.
O never shall I forget the song
I heard in the north countrie,
Crooned forth by an old and withered crone
As she sat 'neath a blasted tree.
I heard in the north countrie,
Crooned forth by an old and withered crone
As she sat 'neath a blasted tree.
Her back was bowed with the weight of years,
Her locks were silvery white,
And the ghastly glare of her light-blue eye
Seemed a church-yard's ominous light.
Her locks were silvery white,
And the ghastly glare of her light-blue eye
Seemed a church-yard's ominous light.
Slowly she rocked to and fro,
With hands clasped over her knee,
And sang, “The world is passing away,
But God has forgotten me!
With hands clasped over her knee,
And sang, “The world is passing away,
But God has forgotten me!
“Twice fifty years have these dim eyes seen,
And a weary lot I dree,
The days of man are threescore and ten,
But God has forgotten me!
And a weary lot I dree,
The days of man are threescore and ten,
But God has forgotten me!
“'Tis a fearful thing to behold the graves
Where our bosom's treasures lie,
To feel alone in this weary world,
And know that we cannot die.
Where our bosom's treasures lie,
To feel alone in this weary world,
And know that we cannot die.
244
“O, dark and evil my life has been,
And lonely it still must be,
But the heaviest thought in my heavy heart
Is that God has forgotten me!
And lonely it still must be,
But the heaviest thought in my heavy heart
Is that God has forgotten me!
“O, many and many a year agone
This foul visage was passing fair,
And the fisherman's child felt a queenly pride
As she braided her raven hair.
This foul visage was passing fair,
And the fisherman's child felt a queenly pride
As she braided her raven hair.
“But youth and beauty have withered away,
Like flowers on a blasted lea;
Men turn in scorn from my wrinkled brow,
And God has forgotten me!
Like flowers on a blasted lea;
Men turn in scorn from my wrinkled brow,
And God has forgotten me!
“Full fifty years 'neath the cold grave-stone
Lies he who once called me bride;
And O! how oft have I made my moan,
And prayed to lie by his side!
Lies he who once called me bride;
And O! how oft have I made my moan,
And prayed to lie by his side!
“Four boys, four brave and stately boys,
Once cheered my lonely hearth,
But none are left to weep o'er their graves
Save her who gave them birth.
Once cheered my lonely hearth,
But none are left to weep o'er their graves
Save her who gave them birth.
“Alone, alone in this weary world,
I look on man's grief or glee,
Alike unheeding their smiles or tears,
For God has forgotten me!
I look on man's grief or glee,
Alike unheeding their smiles or tears,
For God has forgotten me!
“Death garners up the golden sheaves
For heaven's rich granary,
But I am left like a worthless weed;
O! God has forgotten me!”
For heaven's rich granary,
245
O! God has forgotten me!”
On the blast was borne that fearful cry,
As onward in haste I sped;
I came again—the old crone was there,
But no longer she envied the dead.
As onward in haste I sped;
I came again—the old crone was there,
But no longer she envied the dead.
From a knotted branch, in mid air she hung
(For such fruit a fitting tree),
And her life's last deed, like her latest word,
Said, “God has forgotten me!”
(For such fruit a fitting tree),
And her life's last deed, like her latest word,
Said, “God has forgotten me!”
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |