The Downing legends : Stories in Rhyme :: :: University of Virginia Library

Then golden-haired Cornelie cried,
“Alas! it may be all have died.
But all? Do all my kinsmen sleep?
The little ones who scarce could creep?
My brother with the flaxen head?
How may it be that all are dead?”

Then Esther, witnessing her grief,
And knowing naught could bring relief,
Inclined her brow and sobbed aloud,
While valiant Downing also bowed
To hide the burning drops that ran

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Adown his cheek of rugged tan.
For, stalwart though he was, and grim
To hardnesses that touched but him,
He might not spy distress anear
Nor see his daughter shed a tear,
But sympathy would smite him through,
And he would weep, as angels do.

Meanwhile the others held askance
With folded arms and lowered glance,
Unflinching shapes of calm despair,
Without a tear, without a prayer,
As kenning well that no lament
Nor plea would ease their punishment.

But shortly Vanderdecken gave
This comment, “Welcome be the grave!”

Then Vanderloo besought: “My own,
My sweet Cornelie, cease thy moan!
Thy kin have bowed to God's decree;
Long since they crossed the Shining Sea.
Gone are the children, like their games;
Forgot, perchance, their very names.
Yet, dearest one, take heart of grace,
For they will meet us face to face,
Will meet and greet us when our feet
Find rest before the mercy-seat.”