 | Nacoochee ; or, the beautiful star, with other Poems |  |
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THE MOTHER'S LAMENT.
COMPOSED ON THE DEATH OF MY SISTER'S CHILD.
“I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me.”
Oh! they tell me not to sigh,
And they tell me not to moan;
But were all this world to die,
I would not be so alone!
Oh! they cannot comfort me,
For their bounties all are vain—
And the joys that were to be,
Cannot come to me again!
If their Gilead could be brought
From beyond the stars at even,
They might pacify my thought—
There is rest for me in heaven.
And they tell me not to moan;
But were all this world to die,
I would not be so alone!
Oh! they cannot comfort me,
For their bounties all are vain—
And the joys that were to be,
Cannot come to me again!
If their Gilead could be brought
From beyond the stars at even,
They might pacify my thought—
There is rest for me in heaven.
Oh! there is no balm for me,
And my tears must ever flow!
Though they seem like grief to thee,
They are antidotes to wo.
He was all my sun by day,
He was all my stars by night;
And however rough the way,
He was always my delight.
For he lived upon my breast,
Like the first bright star of even
When it wanes upon the west—
There is rest for me in heaven.
And my tears must ever flow!
Though they seem like grief to thee,
They are antidotes to wo.
He was all my sun by day,
He was all my stars by night;
And however rough the way,
He was always my delight.
For he lived upon my breast,
Like the first bright star of even
When it wanes upon the west—
There is rest for me in heaven.
79
And the spring may come again,
And embrace the little spot,
And refresh the sons of men—
But my babe will know it not!
Like the mateless dove that hies
From her desolated nest,
I must take me to the skies,
Where my little one shall rest!
For the woes that compass me,
Are like waves when rudely driven
Round an island in the sea—
There is rest for me in heaven.
And embrace the little spot,
And refresh the sons of men—
But my babe will know it not!
Like the mateless dove that hies
From her desolated nest,
I must take me to the skies,
Where my little one shall rest!
For the woes that compass me,
Are like waves when rudely driven
Round an island in the sea—
There is rest for me in heaven.
Though the flocks may all be seen
In the valleys far away,
And the mountains look as green
As the sunny isles of day;
Though the spring may pass away,
And the summer take its place,
And the autumn be as gay—
I shall never see his face!
I shall never see his eyes
In the stillness of the even—
I shall meet him in the skies—
There is rest for me in heaven.
In the valleys far away,
And the mountains look as green
As the sunny isles of day;
Though the spring may pass away,
And the summer take its place,
And the autumn be as gay—
I shall never see his face!
I shall never see his eyes
In the stillness of the even—
I shall meet him in the skies—
There is rest for me in heaven.
Though my spirit live to thirst
For the healing wells of love,
And my bosom come to burst
For the fountains from above;
Though the rivers of my grief
Shall like Siloah's waters flow,
And shall bring me no relief
In this trying world below;
Though my beating heart may break,
And its tender chords be riven
By this sorrow for thy sake—
There is rest for me in heaven.
For the healing wells of love,
And my bosom come to burst
For the fountains from above;
Though the rivers of my grief
Shall like Siloah's waters flow,
And shall bring me no relief
In this trying world below;
80
And its tender chords be riven
By this sorrow for thy sake—
There is rest for me in heaven.
Though the sun shall come to fall
From his attitude on high;
And the stars beneath the pall
Of his darkness wrapped to die;
Though the earth shall come to boast
Of her grave-clothes in the clouds;
And the universe be lost
In the darkest of all shrouds;
Though the hand of thunder hurls
Every fragment, newly riven,
To the crush of falling worlds—
There is rest for me in heaven.
From his attitude on high;
And the stars beneath the pall
Of his darkness wrapped to die;
Though the earth shall come to boast
Of her grave-clothes in the clouds;
And the universe be lost
In the darkest of all shrouds;
Though the hand of thunder hurls
Every fragment, newly riven,
To the crush of falling worlds—
There is rest for me in heaven.
But my sorrows soon shall cease,
And my spirit then shall be
In that blessed isle of peace,
Where there is no grief with thee!
Oh! but would you have me smile?
Then ascend the wings of morn—
Fly away to that bright isle,
Where the sun himself was born—
Bring me back the babe that made
All my rosy paths so even—
Bring me back the early dead—
There is rest for me in heaven.
And my spirit then shall be
In that blessed isle of peace,
Where there is no grief with thee!
Oh! but would you have me smile?
Then ascend the wings of morn—
Fly away to that bright isle,
Where the sun himself was born—
Bring me back the babe that made
All my rosy paths so even—
Bring me back the early dead—
There is rest for me in heaven.
There is joy for those that weep,
There is joy for those that die;
There are harvests there to reap,
In the heavens above on high!
There are fields forever green,
There are rivers never dry;
There are heavenly hills between
The bright valleys of the sky!
Where the last celestial beam
Of the sun to chaos driven,
Shall announce the opening gleam
Of my rest with thee in heaven.
There is joy for those that die;
There are harvests there to reap,
In the heavens above on high!
81
There are rivers never dry;
There are heavenly hills between
The bright valleys of the sky!
Where the last celestial beam
Of the sun to chaos driven,
Shall announce the opening gleam
Of my rest with thee in heaven.
| Nacoochee ; or, the beautiful star, with other Poems | |