 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
Last Prayers.—Mary Ann Browne.
“O, true and fervent are the prayers that breathe
Forth from a lip that fades with coming death.”
Forth from a lip that fades with coming death.”
I am not what I was:
My heart is withered, and my feelings wasted;
They sprung too early, like the tender grass
That by spring-frost is blasted.
My heart is withered, and my feelings wasted;
They sprung too early, like the tender grass
That by spring-frost is blasted.
But THOU wilt not believe
How very soon my heart-task will be o'er
My heart, whose feelings never can deceive,
Is withered at its core.
How very soon my heart-task will be o'er
My heart, whose feelings never can deceive,
Is withered at its core.
378
I know the blight is there,
And slowly it is spreading in my youth;
And ever and anon some silver hair
Proclaims that this is truth.
And slowly it is spreading in my youth;
And ever and anon some silver hair
Proclaims that this is truth.
And trembles every limb,
As never trembled they in happier years,
And with a mist my eyes are ofttimes dim,
Yet not a mist of tears.
As never trembled they in happier years,
And with a mist my eyes are ofttimes dim,
Yet not a mist of tears.
Thou dost not know, when pale
My cheek appears, that to my heart the blood
Hath rushed like lava, when a sudden gale
Of terror sweeps its flood.
My cheek appears, that to my heart the blood
Hath rushed like lava, when a sudden gale
Of terror sweeps its flood.
O, from the laughing earth,
And all its glorious things, I could depart,
Nor wish to call one lasting impress forth,
Save in thy precious heart.
And all its glorious things, I could depart,
Nor wish to call one lasting impress forth,
Save in thy precious heart.
Yet come not when the drear
Last hour of life is passing over me;
I cannot yield my breath if thou art near,
To bid me live for thee.
Last hour of life is passing over me;
I cannot yield my breath if thou art near,
To bid me live for thee.
But come when I am dead:
No terror shall be pictured on my face;
I shall lie calm on my last mortal bed,
Without one passion's trace.
No terror shall be pictured on my face;
I shall lie calm on my last mortal bed,
Without one passion's trace.
And come thou to my grave:
Ay, promise that: come on some beauteous morn,
When lightly in the breeze the willows wave,
And spring's first flowers are born;
Ay, promise that: come on some beauteous morn,
When lightly in the breeze the willows wave,
And spring's first flowers are born;
Or on a summer's eve,
When the rich snowy wreaths of clouds are turned
To crimson in the west, when waters heave
As if they lived and burned;
When the rich snowy wreaths of clouds are turned
To crimson in the west, when waters heave
As if they lived and burned;
Or in the solemn night,
When there's a hush upon the heavens and deep,
And when the earth is bathed in starry light,
O, come thou there, and weep.
When there's a hush upon the heavens and deep,
And when the earth is bathed in starry light,
O, come thou there, and weep.
379
Weep yet not bitter tears;
Let them be holy, silent, free from pain:
Think of me as a bird who, many years,
Was in a galling chain;
Let them be holy, silent, free from pain:
Think of me as a bird who, many years,
Was in a galling chain;
A chain that let it gaze
On the earth's lovely things, and yet, whene'er
It strove to rush away, or fondly raise
Its wing, still bound it there.
On the earth's lovely things, and yet, whene'er
It strove to rush away, or fondly raise
Its wing, still bound it there.
And bring sometimes a flower
To scatter on the turf I lie beneath,
And gather it in that beloved bower
That round us used to wreathe.
To scatter on the turf I lie beneath,
And gather it in that beloved bower
That round us used to wreathe.
And whatsoe'er the time
Thou comest,—at the morn, or eve, or night,
When dewdrops glisten, when the faint bells chime,
Or in the moon's pale light,—
Thou comest,—at the morn, or eve, or night,
When dewdrops glisten, when the faint bells chime,
Or in the moon's pale light,—
Still keep this thought, (for sweet
It was to me when such bright hope was given,)
That the dear hour shall come when we shall meet,
Ay, surely meet, in heaven.
It was to me when such bright hope was given,)
That the dear hour shall come when we shall meet,
Ay, surely meet, in heaven.
| The American common-place book of poetry | |