 | Poems Old and New by Charles D. Bell |  |
127
DEAD.
“My son, my son!”
Dead: turn'd at once into clay!
Dead: he that drew life from my breast;
Whom I clasp'd to my heart yesterday,
And close to its pulses had press'd!
Dead: and his face ashen grey!
Dead: the wild spirit at rest!
My son, my son!
Dead: he that drew life from my breast;
Whom I clasp'd to my heart yesterday,
And close to its pulses had press'd!
Dead: and his face ashen grey!
Dead: the wild spirit at rest!
My son, my son!
Dead: but not shot thro' the heart
In battle 'gainst wrong for the right,—
'Twere noble from life thus to part,
And fall slain in a chivalrous fight;
But to think how he died is the smart,
A darkness unbroken by light!
My son, my son!
In battle 'gainst wrong for the right,—
'Twere noble from life thus to part,
And fall slain in a chivalrous fight;
But to think how he died is the smart,
A darkness unbroken by light!
My son, my son!
Hadst thou died in a cause that was good,
Standing up for the right and the true,
Thy mother had said,—ay, she would,—
Let death make a gap 'twixt us two:
I swear, by the cross and the rood,
Without tears I had bade thee adieu!
My son, my son!
Standing up for the right and the true,
128
Let death make a gap 'twixt us two:
I swear, by the cross and the rood,
Without tears I had bade thee adieu!
My son, my son!
Dead: stricken down by a blow
Dealt out by a passionate hand;
In the wink of an eyelid laid low,
His blood welling out on the sand,
And crawling, all red in its flow,
Till it crept to my feet where I stand!
My son, my son!
Dealt out by a passionate hand;
In the wink of an eyelid laid low,
His blood welling out on the sand,
And crawling, all red in its flow,
Till it crept to my feet where I stand!
My son, my son!
Dead: kill'd in a wild, drunken brawl,—
Ah, here is the sting and the shame!
Ah, here is the wormwood and gall!
This burns in my bosom like flame!
Would that tears had dropp'd on my pall,
Ere this blot had blacken'd his name.
My son, my son!
Ah, here is the sting and the shame!
Ah, here is the wormwood and gall!
This burns in my bosom like flame!
Would that tears had dropp'd on my pall,
Ere this blot had blacken'd his name.
My son, my son!
Thus to die with a wine-madden'd brain,
Besotted, befool'd, and beguiled!
I curse, from the heart of my pain,
In words that sound frantic and wild;
I curse,—but my curses are vain;
They cannot restore me my child.
My son, my son!
Besotted, befool'd, and beguiled!
I curse, from the heart of my pain,
In words that sound frantic and wild;
I curse,—but my curses are vain;
They cannot restore me my child.
My son, my son!
129
Yet my grief is but common, they say,
Others feel the same anguish and woe;
Sad mothers and wives face the day,
And their eyes with hot tears overflow,
As weeping they pass on their way,
And curse the red wine as they go.
My son, my son!
Others feel the same anguish and woe;
Sad mothers and wives face the day,
And their eyes with hot tears overflow,
As weeping they pass on their way,
And curse the red wine as they go.
My son, my son!
I tell you in God's holy name,
That this is the scourge of the land,
Its burden, its sorrow, its shame,
Burnt deep on its brow like a brand;
Striking hard at its honour and fame,
And crumbling its strength into sand.
My son, my son!
That this is the scourge of the land,
Its burden, its sorrow, its shame,
Burnt deep on its brow like a brand;
Striking hard at its honour and fame,
And crumbling its strength into sand.
My son, my son!
We mothers and wives, lift the cry,
And pray ye, O men, for your grace:
Come, help from your stations on high,
As ye hope to look God in the face,
Who sees us, as weeping we lie,
And ask you for ruth from your place!
My son, my son!
And pray ye, O men, for your grace:
Come, help from your stations on high,
As ye hope to look God in the face,
Who sees us, as weeping we lie,
And ask you for ruth from your place!
My son, my son!
O poets, your aid we implore:
Chant no longer the praises of wine;
Dash the wine-cup down on the floor,
You dishonour a craft so divine!
Ah, indeed, you would praise it no more,
If your son lay dead there, like mine!
My son, my son!
Chant no longer the praises of wine;
Dash the wine-cup down on the floor,
You dishonour a craft so divine!
130
If your son lay dead there, like mine!
My son, my son!
O singers, well-skill'd in the song,
Who stir the sweet air with your breath
As your voices move thrilling along,
Dare you laud the cup that is death?
Dare ye lend your great gifts to such wrong?
If so, from your brows tear the wreath!
My son, my son!
Who stir the sweet air with your breath
As your voices move thrilling along,
Dare you laud the cup that is death?
Dare ye lend your great gifts to such wrong?
If so, from your brows tear the wreath!
My son, my son!
Hear the cry from madhouse and jail,
The moan of the starving and poor,
Hear the widows' and orphans' sharp wail,
Who, like martyrs that groan and endure,
Lift to God their white faces so pale,
And, though speechless, His pity adjure.
My son, my son!
The moan of the starving and poor,
Hear the widows' and orphans' sharp wail,
Who, like martyrs that groan and endure,
Lift to God their white faces so pale,
And, though speechless, His pity adjure.
My son, my son!
Help all! Free the slaves from their bands,
Help, and take part in this fight;
Strike the fetters from paralysed hands!
Like Samson, rise up in your might,
Break the chains like green willow-wands:
Do this in God's name, and the right!
My son, my son!
Help, and take part in this fight;
Strike the fetters from paralysed hands!
Like Samson, rise up in your might,
Break the chains like green willow-wands:
Do this in God's name, and the right!
My son, my son!
131
Oh, scorn not, I pray you, the cry
Of a mother, a widow undone;
But even tho' you pass it by,
It will move the great God on His throne:
He hears from the dust where I lie,
Where in ashes I weep for my son.
My son, my son!
Of a mother, a widow undone;
But even tho' you pass it by,
It will move the great God on His throne:
He hears from the dust where I lie,
Where in ashes I weep for my son.
My son, my son!
| Poems Old and New by Charles D. Bell | |