The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince Edited by R. A. Douglas Lithgow |
 |
| I. |
|
|
A FATHER'S LAMENT. |
 |
|
|
|
| II. |
 | The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince |  |
40
A FATHER'S LAMENT.
My child of love! I look for thee
When night hath chased the day!
Thy sister seeks her father's knee,
But thou—thou art away!
J.B. Rogerson.
When night hath chased the day!
Thy sister seeks her father's knee,
But thou—thou art away!
J.B. Rogerson.
A dreamy stillness in the calm air slept;
The moon was cloudless, and serenely wept
Her tears of radiance in my lonely room,
Giving a silvery softness to the gloom;
When Death—that mighty and mysterious shade—
Beneath my roof his first dread visit paid,—
His shadowy banner o'er my hearth unfurled,
And broke the spell that bound me to the world.
The moon was cloudless, and serenely wept
Her tears of radiance in my lonely room,
Giving a silvery softness to the gloom;
When Death—that mighty and mysterious shade—
Beneath my roof his first dread visit paid,—
His shadowy banner o'er my hearth unfurled,
And broke the spell that bound me to the world.
Oh, mournful task! at that subduing hour
I watched the withering of a cherished flower;
I bent in silence o'er a dying child,
And felt that grief which cannot be beguiled;
Held on my trembling knee his wasted frame,
As the last shadow o'er his features came;
Saw the dull film that veiled his lovely eyes,—
Received upon my lips his latest sighs;
And as the spirit calmly, softly passed,
I knew that I was desolate at last!
I watched the withering of a cherished flower;
I bent in silence o'er a dying child,
And felt that grief which cannot be beguiled;
Held on my trembling knee his wasted frame,
As the last shadow o'er his features came;
Saw the dull film that veiled his lovely eyes,—
Received upon my lips his latest sighs;
And as the spirit calmly, softly passed,
I knew that I was desolate at last!
A few brief hours and he was borne away,
And laid, soft sleeping, on his couch of clay.
Fond hearts that loved, and lips that blessed, were there,
That swelled with grief, and breathed the parting prayer.
The pastor gave his treasure unto God;—
I only heard the booming of the clod
That closed for ever on my darling son,
And told that love's last obsequies were done;
Then looking, lingering still—I turned again
To quell my grief amid the haunts of men.
And laid, soft sleeping, on his couch of clay.
Fond hearts that loved, and lips that blessed, were there,
That swelled with grief, and breathed the parting prayer.
The pastor gave his treasure unto God;—
I only heard the booming of the clod
41
And told that love's last obsequies were done;
Then looking, lingering still—I turned again
To quell my grief amid the haunts of men.
Yes, thou art gone, my beautiful—my boy!
Thy father's solace, and thy mother's joy;
Gone to a far, far world, where sin and strife
Can never stain thy purity of life;
A young, bright worshipper at Mercy's throne,
While I am prisoned here, unblessed and lone,—
Lone as a shattered bark upon the deep,
When unrelenting storms around her sweep;—
Lone as a tree beneath an angry heaven,
Its foliage scattered, and its branches riven:—
Lone as a broken harp, whose wonted strain
Can never wake to melody again!
Thus I have felt for thee, child, since we parted,
Weary and sad, and all but broken-hearted.
I mourn in secret; for thy mother now,
With settled sorrow gathered on her brow,
Looks unto me for comfort in her tears,
While the soul's anguish in her face appears.
We sit together by our evening fire,
And talk of thee with tongues that cannot tire;
Recall thy buoyant form—thy winning ways,—
Thy healthful cheek that promised many days,—
Each pleasant word, each gentle look and tone
That touched the heart, and made it all thine own:
Gaze on the treasures which pertained to thee,
The constant sources of thy boyish glee—
Things which are kept with more than miser care—
The empty garment and the vacant chair;
Till, having eased the burden of the breast,
A tranquil sadness soothes us into rest.
Thy father's solace, and thy mother's joy;
Gone to a far, far world, where sin and strife
Can never stain thy purity of life;
A young, bright worshipper at Mercy's throne,
While I am prisoned here, unblessed and lone,—
Lone as a shattered bark upon the deep,
When unrelenting storms around her sweep;—
Lone as a tree beneath an angry heaven,
Its foliage scattered, and its branches riven:—
Lone as a broken harp, whose wonted strain
Can never wake to melody again!
Thus I have felt for thee, child, since we parted,
Weary and sad, and all but broken-hearted.
I mourn in secret; for thy mother now,
With settled sorrow gathered on her brow,
Looks unto me for comfort in her tears,
While the soul's anguish in her face appears.
We sit together by our evening fire,
And talk of thee with tongues that cannot tire;
Recall thy buoyant form—thy winning ways,—
Thy healthful cheek that promised many days,—
Each pleasant word, each gentle look and tone
That touched the heart, and made it all thine own:
Gaze on the treasures which pertained to thee,
The constant sources of thy boyish glee—
Things which are kept with more than miser care—
The empty garment and the vacant chair;
Till, having eased the burden of the breast,
A tranquil sadness soothes us into rest.
42
'Twas sweet to kiss thy sleeping eyes at morn,
And press thy lips that welcomed my return;
Twas sweet to hear thy cheerful voice at play,
And watch thy steps the live-long Sabbath day;
'Twas sweet to take thee on my knee, and hear
Thine artless narrative of joy or fear,—
To catch the dawning of inquiring thought,
And every change that time and teaching wrought.
This was my wish,—to guard thee as a child,
And keep thy stainless spirit undefiled:
To guide thy progress upward unto youth,
And store thy mind with every precious truth:
Send thee to mingle with the world's rude throng,
In moral worth and manly virtue strong,
With such rare energies as well might claim
The patriot's glory and the poet's fame;
To go down gently to the verge of death,
And bless thee with a father's parting breath,
Assured that thou would'st duly come to lave,
With filial tears, a parent's humble grave.
And press thy lips that welcomed my return;
Twas sweet to hear thy cheerful voice at play,
And watch thy steps the live-long Sabbath day;
'Twas sweet to take thee on my knee, and hear
Thine artless narrative of joy or fear,—
To catch the dawning of inquiring thought,
And every change that time and teaching wrought.
This was my wish,—to guard thee as a child,
And keep thy stainless spirit undefiled:
To guide thy progress upward unto youth,
And store thy mind with every precious truth:
Send thee to mingle with the world's rude throng,
In moral worth and manly virtue strong,
With such rare energies as well might claim
The patriot's glory and the poet's fame;
To go down gently to the verge of death,
And bless thee with a father's parting breath,
Assured that thou would'st duly come to lave,
With filial tears, a parent's humble grave.
Such was my wish, but Providence hath shown
How little wisdom man can call his own!
Such was my wish, but God hath been more just,
And brought my humble spirit to the dust!
I should not murmur that thou couldst not live—
Thou hast a brighter lot than earth can give;
Then let me turn to thy fair sisters here,
And hold them, for thy precious sake, more dear;
Restore them to a place upon my knee,
And yield that love which I reserved for thee.
One hope remains—and one that never dies—
That I may taste thy rapture in the skies;
Here let me bow my stricken soul in prayer,
Till God shall summon me to meet thee there!
How little wisdom man can call his own!
Such was my wish, but God hath been more just,
And brought my humble spirit to the dust!
I should not murmur that thou couldst not live—
Thou hast a brighter lot than earth can give;
Then let me turn to thy fair sisters here,
And hold them, for thy precious sake, more dear;
Restore them to a place upon my knee,
And yield that love which I reserved for thee.
One hope remains—and one that never dies—
That I may taste thy rapture in the skies;
Here let me bow my stricken soul in prayer,
Till God shall summon me to meet thee there!
| The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince | |