 | The lost pleiad ; and other poems |  |
SONNET.—ON THE DEATH OF MY MOTHER.
“Death gives us more than was in Eden lost.”
Young.
Young.
A voice came to me in the dead of night,
And said, Arise! put sackloth on thy brow!
Thy mother's spirit from the world takes flight,
And soars to Heaven—she is an Angel now!
Gather to that Asylum where she lies,
Poor orphan children! let us gather there,
And, bending near her, make Death, with our cries,
Give her, in pity, back to our despair!
A mournful spirit, like the plaintive dove,
Tells, for the mother of our hopes laid low,
In words all radiant with the soul of love,
From Gratitude's soft Cherub-mouth—our wo!
Oh! that to me the Dove's soft wings were given,
That I might soar away to thee in Heaven!
New York, April 10th, 1838.
| The lost pleiad ; and other poems | |