 | The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince |  |
368
EXTEMPORE LINES.
TO MY FRIEND, JAMES GRIMSHAW, ESQ., ON THE DEATH OF HIS MOTHER.
Once more the mighty leveller hath been
O'er the dear threshold of that home serene
Where first the light broke o'er thine infant head;
A new bereavement calleth for thy tears,—
A mother, full of honour and of years,
Hath found the tranquil slumber of the dead.
O'er the dear threshold of that home serene
Where first the light broke o'er thine infant head;
A new bereavement calleth for thy tears,—
A mother, full of honour and of years,
Hath found the tranquil slumber of the dead.
Too well I know that cold, condoling words
Can never heal the lacerated chords
Which Death hath shattered in the human breast;
Yet may a friend, with sympathy unbought,
Pay the poor tribute of melodious thought,
To charm thy spirit from its sad unrest.
Can never heal the lacerated chords
Which Death hath shattered in the human breast;
Yet may a friend, with sympathy unbought,
Pay the poor tribute of melodious thought,
To charm thy spirit from its sad unrest.
Our wildest wailings never can restore
To earth, to us, the loved ones gone before,—
The fair, the good, from our embraces riven:—
Had we no sorrow in this lower life,
No broken hopes, no agonies, no strife,
What need of Immortality and Heaven?
To earth, to us, the loved ones gone before,—
The fair, the good, from our embraces riven:—
Had we no sorrow in this lower life,
No broken hopes, no agonies, no strife,
What need of Immortality and Heaven?
Thy father's dust is mingling with the sod;—
Thy wife, a nearer one, is with her God,
And now thou weepest o'er thy mother's tomb:
But other treasures there are left behind,
To cheer thy heart, to tranquillise thy mind,
The lingering star-lights of thy household gloom.
Thy wife, a nearer one, is with her God,
369
But other treasures there are left behind,
To cheer thy heart, to tranquillise thy mind,
The lingering star-lights of thy household gloom.
Thy children yet are spared to thee,—in them
Thou hast the reflex of that one lost gem,—
The brightest in thy coronet of love:
She who became the idol of thy youth;
Who clave to thee with undecaying truth,—
She who beholds thy sorrows from above.
Thou hast the reflex of that one lost gem,—
The brightest in thy coronet of love:
She who became the idol of thy youth;
Who clave to thee with undecaying truth,—
She who beholds thy sorrows from above.
Oh! mourn not for the dead: their lot is bright,—
All purity and joy; all strength and light,—
All peace and power, and love without its stings:
Then mourn not for the dead:—if tears must fall,
Be it for those who lie beneath the pall—
The cold, oppressive pall of earthly things.
All purity and joy; all strength and light,—
All peace and power, and love without its stings:
Then mourn not for the dead:—if tears must fall,
Be it for those who lie beneath the pall—
The cold, oppressive pall of earthly things.
| The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince | |