 | Poems |  |
“Son of my soul! the happy days are done;
“Thy little course and mine are nearly run;
“The white tents wave on Kirjath-Arba's plain,
“No home for us—no resting place again:
“Before yon orb is sunken from the sky
“Together in the desert we must die.
“Must die, my boy, and I, alas! can give,
“To make death lighter, or to help thee live,
“No greater gift, no better boon than this,
“A mother's love—a mother's fondest kiss.
“Oh! might I drain for thee this bitter bowl,
“Or take one torment from thy parting soul,
“How would I die a thousand deaths for thee,
“And rack mine own to set thy spirit free.
“But I must watch thy failing fevered breath,
“And on this bosom nurse thee into death;
“Must mark thy sinking heart and closing eye,
“A pang more cruel than death's agony.
“What—weepest thou to lose, my gentle son,
“The pleasant promise of thy life begun?
“Weep, if thou wilt! no mocking eye shall view;
“None but thy mother's,—and she weepeth too.
“Thy little course and mine are nearly run;
“The white tents wave on Kirjath-Arba's plain,
“No home for us—no resting place again:
“Before yon orb is sunken from the sky
“Together in the desert we must die.
“Must die, my boy, and I, alas! can give,
“To make death lighter, or to help thee live,
“No greater gift, no better boon than this,
“A mother's love—a mother's fondest kiss.
“Oh! might I drain for thee this bitter bowl,
“Or take one torment from thy parting soul,
“How would I die a thousand deaths for thee,
“And rack mine own to set thy spirit free.
“But I must watch thy failing fevered breath,
“And on this bosom nurse thee into death;
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“A pang more cruel than death's agony.
“What—weepest thou to lose, my gentle son,
“The pleasant promise of thy life begun?
“Weep, if thou wilt! no mocking eye shall view;
“None but thy mother's,—and she weepeth too.
“Alas! how often at the end of day
“Sadly and gladly I have seen thee play;
“Or with bright eye and brow of anxious care
“The tiny arrows for thy bow prepare.
“And thou wouldst pluck the he-goat by the beard,
“And drag him, laughing, from the startled herd,
“Or leap rejoicing from thy father's side
“To chase the leopard in his course of pride.
“And in her tent thy mother sat the while,
“Marking thy playful mood with thoughtful smile;
“For then I feared that stubbornness of soul
“That mocked at bonds, and might not brook control:
“I knew from hand so daring, heart so free,
“That length of days was not a gift for thee:
“Yet deemed I never that thy father's hand
“Would rise to drive us from that happy land;
“That he could doom us to the desert plain,
“And give thee life to take that life again.
“Sadly and gladly I have seen thee play;
“Or with bright eye and brow of anxious care
“The tiny arrows for thy bow prepare.
“And thou wouldst pluck the he-goat by the beard,
“And drag him, laughing, from the startled herd,
“Or leap rejoicing from thy father's side
“To chase the leopard in his course of pride.
“And in her tent thy mother sat the while,
“Marking thy playful mood with thoughtful smile;
“For then I feared that stubbornness of soul
“That mocked at bonds, and might not brook control:
“I knew from hand so daring, heart so free,
“That length of days was not a gift for thee:
“Yet deemed I never that thy father's hand
“Would rise to drive us from that happy land;
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“And give thee life to take that life again.
| Poems | |