Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Tenderly—lovingly—her load she laid
Where no sun glistened in the grateful shade;
Softly she pillowed on the sands his head,
And spread her mantle for his dying bed;

No gems were there to deck the lowly bier,
But the pure lustre of a mother's tear;
No fragrant spices for the sleep of death,
But the soft fragrance of a mother's breath;
No tearful eye, no tributary tongue,
To tell his fate who died so fair and young;
No better mourner for the boy than she
Who weeps to see him what herself shall be:
Than she who sits apart with side-long eye
Waiting till he hath died that she may die;
And buries all her forehead in her hair,
Weeping the bitter tears of black despair.

So is the desert-sand their death and grave,
No hope of help, no pitying hand to save!

None! was it then the icy lip of death
Or low winds laden with the roses' breath
That kissed her forehead? was it earthly sound,
Floating like fairy voice above, around;
Or splendid symphonies of seraph-kings
Striking the music from unearthly strings,
Whose touch hath startled her? what inward strife
Stirs the still apathy of parting life?
What sense of power unseen, of presence hid,
Lifts from her lightless eyes the unwilling lid?

She rose—she turned—there in that lonely place
God's glory flashed upon her lifted face.