University of Virginia Library

I saw her in her sunny loveliness,
In ripened beauty, both of form and face;
The morning flush of girlhood was no more,
With careless tone, free step, and merry laugh;
The sun of love had melted these away.
As day dispels the glitter of the dew,
And melts away the crimson morning cloud
That veils the deep bright azure of the heaven,
Revealing all its ocean-flood of light,
So shone the soul of woman all unveiled
In its deep love and truth upon her face,
And 'mongst the gentle creatures that looked out
From those clear eyes, a trembling spirit lay,
Which told that she would sleep the careless sleep
Of girlhood never more. Yet such a smile
Of holy tenderness was on her lips
As never graced the face of maidenhood,
For on her bosom slept her own young babe,
Her first, her precious one. The dewy rose
Of love maternal, sweetest bloom of earth,
Lay in her bosom, with the wakeful cares
That grow in thorny clusters on its stem.
But Hope stood smiling by;—her sunny hair
Wreathed with the brightest buds and flowers of spring;
Her magic harp displayed the morning star,
And such a trancing melody she sung,
As wrapped the mother's heart in trembling bliss,
As closer to her heart she hugged the babe,
And pressed upon its cheek a warmer kiss.

Again I saw that mother. Beautiful
She was, like summer when the flowers are gone,
And deep green garland glittering to the sun,
Like brooding pinions tremble o'er the spring.
Her eyes were full of joy, a pure, proud joy,
For they were fixed in love upon her child,
A maid of perfect beauty and rich mind,
Yet meek and gentle as the petted lamb.
She sat upon a sofa, and the book
In which the humble find eternal life,
Lay open on her knees, and her sweet voice
Pronounced its treasured words so feelingly,
That the delighted mother's soul went out
To that sweet pious child with tender bliss.

Hope still was there, with wreaths of fragrant flowers,
And her emblazoned harp, crowned gloriously
With blossomed laurel from the Muses' hill,
Fresh with the dew that heaven benignly weeps
On Zion's holy mountain. Still a tear
Stood in her azure eye, for she perceived,
Amid the garlands that she gloried in,
Some pale and drooping flowers, and well she knew
That the insidious canker of disease
Lay in their velvet bloom, eating their life,
And with her song was blent a low sad strain,
So sweet and dirgelike, filling every pause,
That those who listened wept, they knew not why.

Once more I saw that mother—but her cheek
Was pale and hollow, and upon her brow
Was written deep the tracery of care.
Amid the locks combed smoothly o'er her brow
Were many threads of white, and her blue eyes
Were dim and full of tears. Her form was bent,
As if her heart was broken, and her soul
Crushed down and longing for the quiet grave—
That holy chamber, where no pain, or fear,
Or sorrow, enters with its bitterness,
To agitate the still and silent heart.
The daughter she had so entirely loved,
Her only joy—the tender fragrant rose,
Whose balmy beauty had been all her bliss,
Lay there before her, still and beautiful,
All robed in white and crowned with pale sweet flowers.
Is she a bride to-day? If it be so,
Why is her cheek so white, and wherefore lie
The soft brown lashes of her heavy eyes
So fixedly upon her velvet cheek?
And why is there no motion to disturb
The thin transparent hands, that lie so still
Upon her bosom? Wherefore is the smile
Upon her lips so fixed, so spiritless?
And why is her pure brow so marble-like
And mute in its expression? She is dead!
And ready to be carried to the grave!
The mother's eye, which for so many years
Had turned for all its joy-beams unto her,
Must see the coffin closed, and the cold sods
Heaped over the fine form, concealing it
For ever—oh, for ever!—from her view.
How shall she bear it? How shall she endure
This bitter breaking of the tenderest tie
Amongst her heart-strings? Oh, delusive Hope!
Where now are all thy brilliant promises?
And where thy fragrant garlands? Where art thou?
Oh, meek and ever-present comforter!
Sweet solace of all ills, behold she stands
Supporting the bereaved so tenderly;
Her earth-born flowers lie withered at her feet,
And wet with tears—but o'er her placid brow
Is twined fresh balm of Gilead, and her harp
Wears, like a coronet, the bow of heaven.
The living laurel, late its glorious crown,
Hangs on the everlasting arch of Fame,
Where cloudless sunshine and the purest dew,
Will rest on it for ever. Blessed Hope!—
She sings so softly now, and points away
To ever-blooming gardens of delight,
Where, 'midst ten thousand young and lovely forms,
By Mercy taken from life's wilderness
Before the mildew or the canker-worm
Had touched their tender beauty,—wrapped in bliss,
Which fills the spirit, so that it hath nought
To wish or hope for, yet increases still,
Expanding with the soul's capacities,
And filling them for ever—that sweet child
Lives, radiant with immortal happiness.
And canst thou wish her back to earth? she asks,
Where thou shalt linger but few years at most.
No, rather let me lead thee to the gate
Of her bright resting-place—the gate at which
I take my leave of all earth's travellers;
I have no place in the eternal world;
The dwellers in the bright land need me not,
And at the gate of everlasting night
Despair forbids my entrance.
Yet on earth
I live, sustain, and soothe, and sing of heaven.

“Oh, blessed, holy Hope!” the mourner sighed,
“I do not mourn as those who see thy lyre
Unstrung and crushed, amid thy perished flowers;
I know—I know! that my Redeemer lives,
That in his presence I shall meet my child,
In deathless joy and beauty.”