The American common-place book of poetry with occasional notes |
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The Raising of Jairus's Daughter.—N. A. Review.
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 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
The Raising of Jairus's Daughter.—N. A. Review.
They have watched her last and quivering breath,
And the maiden's soul has flown;
They have wrapped her in the robes of death,
And laid her, dark and lone.
And the maiden's soul has flown;
They have wrapped her in the robes of death,
And laid her, dark and lone.
But the mother casts a look behind,
Upon that fallen flower,—
Nay, start not—'twas the gathering wind;
Those limbs have lost their power.
Upon that fallen flower,—
Nay, start not—'twas the gathering wind;
Those limbs have lost their power.
And tremble not at that cheek of snow,
O'er which the faint light plays;
'Tis only the crimson curtain's glow,
Which thus deceives thy gaze.
O'er which the faint light plays;
'Tis only the crimson curtain's glow,
Which thus deceives thy gaze.
Didst thou not close that expiring eye,
And feel the soft pulse decay?
And did not thy lips receive the sigh,
Which bore her soul away?
And feel the soft pulse decay?
And did not thy lips receive the sigh,
Which bore her soul away?
She lies on her couch, all pale and hushed,
And heeds not thy gentle tread,
And is still as the spring-flower by traveller crushed,
Which dies on its snowy bed.
And heeds not thy gentle tread,
And is still as the spring-flower by traveller crushed,
Which dies on its snowy bed.
The mother has flown from that lonely room,
And the maid is mute and pale;
Her ivory hand is cold as the tomb,
And dark is her stiffened nail.
And the maid is mute and pale;
Her ivory hand is cold as the tomb,
And dark is her stiffened nail.
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Her mother strays with folded arms,
And her head is bent in wo;
She shuts her thoughts to joy or charms;
No tear attempts to flow.
And her head is bent in wo;
She shuts her thoughts to joy or charms;
No tear attempts to flow.
But listen! what name salutes her ear?
It comes to a heart of stone;
“Jesus,” she cries, “has no power here;
My daughter's life has flown.”
It comes to a heart of stone;
“Jesus,” she cries, “has no power here;
My daughter's life has flown.”
He leads the way to that cold white couch,
And bends o'er the senseless form;
Can his be less than a heavenly touch?
The maiden's hand is warm!
And bends o'er the senseless form;
Can his be less than a heavenly touch?
The maiden's hand is warm!
And the fresh blood comes with roseate hue,
While Death's dark terrors fly;
Her form is raised, and her step is true,
And life beams bright in her eye.
While Death's dark terrors fly;
Her form is raised, and her step is true,
And life beams bright in her eye.
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