Ballads for the Times (Now first collected,) Geraldine, A Modern Pyramid, Bartenus, A Thousand Lines, and other poems. By Martin F. Tupper. A new Edition, enlarged and revised |
 |
 |
|
|
|
|
The Mother's Lament.
|
|
|
|
 | Ballads for the Times |  |
The Mother's Lament.
My own little darling—dead!
The dove of my happiness fled!
Just Heaven, forgive,
But let me not live
Now my poor babe is dead:
The dove of my happiness fled!
Just Heaven, forgive,
But let me not live
Now my poor babe is dead:
No more to my yearning breast
Shall that sweet mouth be prest,
No more on my arm
Nestled up warm
Shall my fair darling rest:
Shall that sweet mouth be prest,
No more on my arm
Nestled up warm
Shall my fair darling rest:
367
Alas, for that dear glazed eye,
Why did it dim or die?
Those lips so soft
I have kiss'd so oft
Why are they ice, oh why?
Why did it dim or die?
Those lips so soft
I have kiss'd so oft
Why are they ice, oh why?
Alas, little frocks and toys,
Shadows of bygone joys,—
Have I not treasure
Of bitterest pleasure
In these little frocks and toys?
Shadows of bygone joys,—
Have I not treasure
Of bitterest pleasure
In these little frocks and toys?
O harrowing sight to behold
That marble-like face all cold,
That small cherish'd form
Flung to the worm,
Deep in the charnel-mould!
That marble-like face all cold,
That small cherish'd form
Flung to the worm,
Deep in the charnel-mould!
Where is each heart-winning way,
Thy prattle, and innocent play?
Alas, they are gone,
And left me alone
To weep for them night and day:
Thy prattle, and innocent play?
Alas, they are gone,
And left me alone
To weep for them night and day:
Yet why should I linger behind?
Kill me too,—death most kind;
Where can I go
To meet thy blow
And my sweet babe to find?
Kill me too,—death most kind;
Where can I go
To meet thy blow
And my sweet babe to find?
368
I know it, I rave half-wild!
But who can be calm and mild
When the deep heart
Is riven apart
Over a dear dead child?
But who can be calm and mild
When the deep heart
Is riven apart
Over a dear dead child?
I know it, I should not speak
So boldly,—I ought to be meek,
But love, it is strong;
And my spirit is wrong,—
Help me, my God! I am weak!
So boldly,—I ought to be meek,
But love, it is strong;
And my spirit is wrong,—
Help me, my God! I am weak!
| Ballads for the Times | |