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DEAD AND ALIVE.
The biting, wintry storm swept swiftly round,
And wrapped the cottage in its chilly folds,
Thatching it thicker every icy hour.
The tiny snow-flakes fluttered in the wind,
Careered, and dashed, and fell, and rose again,
As fain, each one, to live its longest time,
Ere sinking back to an inglorious whole,
Lost, nevermore a snow-flake.
And wrapped the cottage in its chilly folds,
Thatching it thicker every icy hour.
The tiny snow-flakes fluttered in the wind,
Careered, and dashed, and fell, and rose again,
As fain, each one, to live its longest time,
Ere sinking back to an inglorious whole,
Lost, nevermore a snow-flake.
Every thing
Bore, on that day, the signet of King Death.
The clouds were palls, and every drift a shroud.
The apple-trees were singing funeral hymns;
And high the leafless burghers of the wood
Rose, 'mid the storm, like skeletons upright.
Death reigned without the cottage, and within
E'en held his somber court.
Bore, on that day, the signet of King Death.
The clouds were palls, and every drift a shroud.
The apple-trees were singing funeral hymns;
And high the leafless burghers of the wood
Rose, 'mid the storm, like skeletons upright.
Death reigned without the cottage, and within
E'en held his somber court.
The house was still,
E'en to the burly clock; whose lumbering weight
So oft had climbed, responsive to HER touch.
The tell-tale hands had stopped, the hour she died,
And, mutely eloquent, e'en yet proclaimed
The fatal time that saw her life go out.
The time that tuned the hopeless, dreary wail
Of many sad and motherless young hearts,
Chilled as with ice by three remorseless words:
“Your mother's dead.”
E'en to the burly clock; whose lumbering weight
So oft had climbed, responsive to HER touch.
The tell-tale hands had stopped, the hour she died,
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The fatal time that saw her life go out.
The time that tuned the hopeless, dreary wail
Of many sad and motherless young hearts,
Chilled as with ice by three remorseless words:
“Your mother's dead.”
Ah! many friends we love
Must part the clouds of earth, and seek the sky,
Ere we can fly to find where they are gone.
The earth may beat on many a coffin lid
Fit time to strains of sorrow in our hearts,
For those upon whose lifeless forms it falls.
Life's turnpike teems with sorrow's flinty stones,
And takes its toll in sobs and bitter tears,
For those who faint and fall upon the way.
And yet, a hundred griefs may come and go;
Each in its turn may bend us to the earth;
And then, while yet we mourn the latest ill,
Some crushing sorrow may outweigh them all.
Must part the clouds of earth, and seek the sky,
Ere we can fly to find where they are gone.
The earth may beat on many a coffin lid
Fit time to strains of sorrow in our hearts,
For those upon whose lifeless forms it falls.
Life's turnpike teems with sorrow's flinty stones,
And takes its toll in sobs and bitter tears,
For those who faint and fall upon the way.
And yet, a hundred griefs may come and go;
Each in its turn may bend us to the earth;
And then, while yet we mourn the latest ill,
Some crushing sorrow may outweigh them all.
It is a sad, a mournful thing, to see
A cherished sister lying in her shroud;
To feel no more the confidence and love
That hung upon her pure and hallowed lips;
To know that Death, a suitor come unbid,
Has wooed her from your strong, encircling arm;
To feel a hundred flowers of memory nipped
By the same frost that rests upon her brow;
To think of all the past—the darling past—
The blessed past—as all forever gone,
Without a future to renew its charms;
Ah, yes! a sister's loss is hard to bear!
And yet, it is not all.
A cherished sister lying in her shroud;
To feel no more the confidence and love
That hung upon her pure and hallowed lips;
To know that Death, a suitor come unbid,
Has wooed her from your strong, encircling arm;
To feel a hundred flowers of memory nipped
By the same frost that rests upon her brow;
To think of all the past—the darling past—
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Without a future to renew its charms;
Ah, yes! a sister's loss is hard to bear!
And yet, it is not all.
A brother's grave
Is fenced and girt with desolation round.
There is no sound so mournful as the hush
That broods and lingers o'er a death-stilled heart;
And there is power, and mighty power, to move,
With the inaction of a strong right arm.
For memory lingers, in her double guise,
Rewarding and avenging all the past;
Pouring a blessed balm for some kind word,
And giving thrusts for each unworthy deed.
Ah, yes! a brother's loss is hard to bear!
And yet, it is not all.
Is fenced and girt with desolation round.
There is no sound so mournful as the hush
That broods and lingers o'er a death-stilled heart;
And there is power, and mighty power, to move,
With the inaction of a strong right arm.
For memory lingers, in her double guise,
Rewarding and avenging all the past;
Pouring a blessed balm for some kind word,
And giving thrusts for each unworthy deed.
Ah, yes! a brother's loss is hard to bear!
And yet, it is not all.
A father's voice
May hush its words of counsel and reproof,
Its blessings, and its hopeful words of cheer,
And sink in Silence's dark, unfathomed sea.
A father's coffin hold a treasure lost;
A father's love is something strong and true,
A father's loss is heavy to be borne!
And yet it is not all.
May hush its words of counsel and reproof,
Its blessings, and its hopeful words of cheer,
And sink in Silence's dark, unfathomed sea.
A father's coffin hold a treasure lost;
A father's love is something strong and true,
A father's loss is heavy to be borne!
And yet it is not all.
But oh, the pang,
The cruel pang, the hard, heart-sickening pang,
That turns each sweet of life to bitterest gall,
Each zephyr to a tempest, and each breeze
To organ-tones of woe; the hopeless pang
That pits rebellious life against itself,
When the strong cord, the golden, love-charged cord
That binds a faithful mother's heart to ours,
Severs, and falls in ruin at our feet,
And mocks us, with its brightness, from the dust!
There is no loss except the loss of Heaven,
Like that which fills a loving mother's shroud.
There is no love, except the love of God,
Like that which burns within a mother's heart.
The cruel pang, the hard, heart-sickening pang,
That turns each sweet of life to bitterest gall,
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To organ-tones of woe; the hopeless pang
That pits rebellious life against itself,
When the strong cord, the golden, love-charged cord
That binds a faithful mother's heart to ours,
Severs, and falls in ruin at our feet,
And mocks us, with its brightness, from the dust!
There is no loss except the loss of Heaven,
Like that which fills a loving mother's shroud.
There is no love, except the love of God,
Like that which burns within a mother's heart.
It is a fire that never will go out,
Though base ingratitude be on it poured;
Though wickedness may wrap and clasp it round.
E'en he who checks the answer to its prayers,
Still sees, along his crooked, thorny path,
The mild refulgence of its constant light.
And though he tread the vilest steeps of sin,
And climb, perchance, with wayward, bloody stride,
E'en to the hangman's rope, a mother's lips
Will kiss him in his coffin of disgrace,
And dote on him for what he might have been.
Though base ingratitude be on it poured;
Though wickedness may wrap and clasp it round.
E'en he who checks the answer to its prayers,
Still sees, along his crooked, thorny path,
The mild refulgence of its constant light.
And though he tread the vilest steeps of sin,
And climb, perchance, with wayward, bloody stride,
E'en to the hangman's rope, a mother's lips
Will kiss him in his coffin of disgrace,
And dote on him for what he might have been.
And there she lay—the mother of that flock—
Unheeding all the childish tears of grief,
That else had wasted not a single note,
Without her loving and consoling kiss.
The hearth was cold—the kitchen fire gone out—
And the bold storm beat madly at the door,
Like some importunate mourner, that would fain
Admittance gain, to sorrow with the rest.
Unheeding all the childish tears of grief,
That else had wasted not a single note,
Without her loving and consoling kiss.
The hearth was cold—the kitchen fire gone out—
And the bold storm beat madly at the door,
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Admittance gain, to sorrow with the rest.
While yet the stricken band were closing round,
And weeping sorrow that they could not tell,
The door swung swiftly on its creaking hinge;
And, heeding not the sudden, wondering look
Of the sad father, as he raised his eyes
And sighed for sorrow of the hopeless past,
Entered a young and fragile female form,
With locks dishevelled, and with garments thin,
And face as pale as she had been the dead.
Upon her brow were drawn long lines of care,
And marks that told of waywardness and vice.
Scarce greeting them whose wondering looks she met,
She hastened to the sleeper; and with tears
Of penitence, that well might pay the debt
That sin and disobedience had run up,
She clasped the stiffened form unto her breast,
And madly kissed the mute, unanswering lips,
And thus she spoke:
And weeping sorrow that they could not tell,
The door swung swiftly on its creaking hinge;
And, heeding not the sudden, wondering look
Of the sad father, as he raised his eyes
And sighed for sorrow of the hopeless past,
Entered a young and fragile female form,
With locks dishevelled, and with garments thin,
And face as pale as she had been the dead.
Upon her brow were drawn long lines of care,
And marks that told of waywardness and vice.
Scarce greeting them whose wondering looks she met,
She hastened to the sleeper; and with tears
Of penitence, that well might pay the debt
That sin and disobedience had run up,
She clasped the stiffened form unto her breast,
And madly kissed the mute, unanswering lips,
And thus she spoke:
“O mother, mother, lost!
Thou're here, and yet thou'rt gone! I still can see
The gentle smile that lingers on thy face,
But cannot hear thy kind, consoling voice!
My lips impure may kiss thy sacred cheek,
Yet feel no kindly pressure back again!
My words of grief and penitence may fall
With pardon humbly asked, upon thine ear;
And yet thou canst not hear them; and no word
Of blest forgiveness canst thou answer back!
Thou're here, and yet thou'rt gone! I still can see
The gentle smile that lingers on thy face,
But cannot hear thy kind, consoling voice!
My lips impure may kiss thy sacred cheek,
Yet feel no kindly pressure back again!
My words of grief and penitence may fall
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And yet thou canst not hear them; and no word
Of blest forgiveness canst thou answer back!
“O mother, mother wronged!
Wronged by ingratitude, and all the shame
That one like me could heap upon thy pride!
Wronged by neglect, and bitter, scornful words!
Spurned, when thou followedst me, e'en in my guilt,
Down to the darkest depths of wayward sin,
And begged of me, with tears, to come with thee,
And tread the paths of virtue once again!
Wronged by ingratitude, and all the shame
That one like me could heap upon thy pride!
Wronged by neglect, and bitter, scornful words!
Spurned, when thou followedst me, e'en in my guilt,
Down to the darkest depths of wayward sin,
And begged of me, with tears, to come with thee,
And tread the paths of virtue once again!
“Speak to me but one word; one little word
Of pardon, for the dark and shameful past;
One little, fleeting word; nay, e'en a breath;
Or give to me a sign; a smile; a look;
That I may feel forgiveness for my sin!
I cannot see thee laid into thy grave,
Without one word of pardon or of love!
And if, O God! Thou wilt but let her come,
But just to speak one little word to me,
I swear to Thee, my lips shall sing Thy praise,
My heart shall beat accordance with Thy word,
And truth and virtue shall adorn my life,
Until this weary heart shall cease to beat.”
Of pardon, for the dark and shameful past;
One little, fleeting word; nay, e'en a breath;
Or give to me a sign; a smile; a look;
That I may feel forgiveness for my sin!
I cannot see thee laid into thy grave,
Without one word of pardon or of love!
And if, O God! Thou wilt but let her come,
But just to speak one little word to me,
I swear to Thee, my lips shall sing Thy praise,
My heart shall beat accordance with Thy word,
And truth and virtue shall adorn my life,
Until this weary heart shall cease to beat.”
As the frail plantlet, bursting from its seed,
Casts off the earth that rests upon its head,
And springs to blooming beauty, so this prayer,
Cleaving the guilt and shame that o'er it hung,
Bloomed fair and pure before the All-seeing eye.
And it was answered. From her deathly trance,
The mother woke; and, lifting up her head,
Said, “Where am I? a deep, long sleep was mine.
I dreamed that in the fields of Paradise,
A shepherdess, I watched and fed my flock;
Till the Almighty came to me and said,
‘Matron, return unto thy flock below;
For they are chilled by the cold, wintry storm;
And one, which long time went from thee astray,
Worn, soiled, but penitent, to-day returns.
She shall be washed in the pure blood of Christ,
And thou shalt take her, chastened, to thine arms.”
Casts off the earth that rests upon its head,
And springs to blooming beauty, so this prayer,
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Bloomed fair and pure before the All-seeing eye.
And it was answered. From her deathly trance,
The mother woke; and, lifting up her head,
Said, “Where am I? a deep, long sleep was mine.
I dreamed that in the fields of Paradise,
A shepherdess, I watched and fed my flock;
Till the Almighty came to me and said,
‘Matron, return unto thy flock below;
For they are chilled by the cold, wintry storm;
And one, which long time went from thee astray,
Worn, soiled, but penitent, to-day returns.
She shall be washed in the pure blood of Christ,
And thou shalt take her, chastened, to thine arms.”
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