University of Virginia Library

THE DYING GIRL.

[INSCRIBED TO PHILIP ROSE, ESQ., THE FOUNDER OF THE HOSPITAL FOR CONSUMPTION.]

CONSUMPTION.

A beauty clothes the hectic cheek,
A radiance fills the sunken eye,
But when her mellow'd accents speak,
They make the sadden'd hearer sigh;

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For, softer sink they in their cadence far
Than Autumn's dying tone, beneath some mournful star.

They bore her to that healthful Isle
Whose rocks of terraced verdure rise
And catch the Morn's celestial smile,
Responsive to the greeting skies;
And vainly prophesied, the island-breeze
Would freshen her white cheek, and waft away disease.

But there she sicken'd, day by day,
In shrinking paleness, like a flower,
Yet from her glance there flash'd a ray
Of almost supernat'ral power;—
So bright the lustre of her eye-beam fell,
It touch'd the tender mind with more than woman's spell.

For mother too, and far-off home,
Her plaintive heart in secret cried;
And backward long'd her soul to roam,—
Since in the churchyard, side by side
Under the green turf, where loved sisters lay,
She hoped her dust might wait the awful Judgment-day.

And, there behold her once again
In her own room with placid brow,—
So pale, you see each azure vein
Meander through her beauty now;
Yet, like a pulse of rosy light at even,
Oft to her faded cheek a crimson flush is given.

Seldom she sighs, but veils within
Much that would grieve fond Love to know,
And when some pensive tears begin,
She tries to check their overflow;
Safe in the arms of Jesu rests her soul,
Nor does the early grave with gloom the mind control.

Not for herself, but for the heart
Of Love maternal, she could weep;
And often in young dreams will start,
As girlish days through mem'ry sweep,
While faintly through her lips there steals a word,—
And, “Oh! my mother dear!” is like low music heard.

She dies,—as Beauty ever dies
When sad consumption finds a tomb;
With brilliance in her deep-set eyes,
And on her face a healthless bloom;
No harsh transition, but a soft decay,
Like dream-born tones of night, which melt by dawn away.

They wheel her round each garden-walk
Where oft her lisping childhood play'd,
And loved to hear the old nurse talk
And soothe her when she seem'd afraid,
While danced her ringlets as she prattled on,
More playful than the birds she loved to gaze upon.

She looks, as they alone, who feel
The last of earth before them lies,
While o'er them soften'd mem'ries steal
Which melt the heart into the eyes,—
For, tree and turret, woods and uplands, all
Back to the dying girl her childish past recall!

Dream-like the hush of twilight floats,
Veiling the lilac-bowers around;
While in the air melodious notes
Of soft dejection sweetly sound:
The Landscape, like a conscious mourner, seems
To lie in brooding shade, and sadden as it dreams.

Now, to her chamber home return'd,
Before the casement there reclined,
Just as the broad horizon burn'd
With the last blush Day left behind,
Her eye reposed upon the dying sun,
Fading like feeble youth, before life's course is run.

Hush'd is the breezeless air, and deep
The awe around each mourner stealing;
Bend o'er her form, but do not weep,—
Death is too grand for outward feeling!
As sinks the sun beneath yon golden sea,
So ebbs her spirit back to God's eternity.

THE HOSPITAL.

She dies, as countless martyrs die
Beneath the blast of that Disease,
Which summons to th' immortal sky
All ages for their blest release:—
Not for the dead, but for the living mourn,
And childless mothers' hearts, and homes bereaved and lorn!

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But oh, unlike that beauteous maid
Who died in mercy, truth, and prayer,
Millions expire on damp stones laid
With none to watch them wither there;
Creedless and hopeless, fever'd, sad, and lone,
Their life an anguish seems, their death a muffled groan!

Compassion! 'tis for such we plead;
Open thine hand, protect the poor,
And Christ, who soothed Creation's need,
Shall bless thy basket and thy store;
Counting all mercies to the orphan shown,
As done unto Himself, when Earth beholds His Throne.

And Thou, on Whom disease and health
Alike for stay and hope depend,
A godlike heart bestow on Wealth,
And let the strong the weak defend;
Till charity in perfect type appear,
And leave the glow of heaven on this benighted sphere.

Guard then, O Lord! that sacred pile
Whose walls o'ershade the sick and poor,
For there, Thine own benignant smile
Descends to gild each opening door;
And where the pale ones in consumption lie,
Some gracious beams bestow of Thine o'er-watching eye!

The Saviour in the poor man lives
Reflected through his pain and grief;
And he who to the wretched gives,
To Christ himself imparts relief.
And therefore, Shrine of Hope! we hail thy walls,
Where true compassion works what God on earth recalls.

And faith from out this calm disease
May waft to heaven its holy breath,
Ere the last sigh hath brought release,
And smile away the gloom of death;
For wan consumption lets the spirit pray,
And leaves the mind to act amid serene decay.

When fever-throbs of fiery pain
Beat through the blood with burning start,
How can sublime religion gain
A sainted hold upon the heart?
To human sense, a ruin man appears,
All blacken'd with despair, and blind with hideous fears.

But, Mercy! thou canst cheer the bed
Where gradual weakness gently dies,
As o'er the life past sin hath led
Repentance heaves accepted sighs;
And that which careless Health had never taught,
Some hallow'd Sickness oft to erring souls has brought.

And, Lord, this blissful hope we nurse,
That many a wild and wand'ring Soul
Who reap'd in crime Thy dooming curse,
And heard its coming thunders roll,
Here, in this guardian home of peace and love,
May shed the precious tears glad Angels greet above.