Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Again, again, oh! let me hear you speak,
Call me, embrace me, look on me again;
My hand is on your forehead, it shall seek
To give relief and mitigate your pain;
And yours will soon press mine, 'tis only weak.
Hope cannot be quite lost—life must remain.
I see his bosom heave; I hear his breath—
'Tis sleep, 'tis stupor, anything but Death!

It is not Death, though motionless he be,
That may of ease and slumber be a token;
No friendly glance now beams from those dim eyes,
By those pale lips no feeble words are spoken;
Far better were complaints and painful sighs,
Than silence, silence never to be broken.
Yet still he sleeps—we may in time restore—
No—no—his sleep is Death, he wakes no more!

My task is over, and I'll not repine,
Since all his tedious pangs are at an end;
Beside his bed I shall no more recline,
To all his whisper'd wants no more attend;
I ne'er shall see his moist eyes fixed on mine,
In silent recognition of his friend;
I never more shall cool his fever'd brow,
Or bathe his cheeks—all, all is over now!

He loved me like a brother, and I felt
That I should watch him with a brother's care;
His chamber was my own, I fondly dwelt
Ever beside him, comforting him there.
He sought my aid in all things, and I knelt,
Morning and evening, joining him in prayer:
Whilst tremulous and weak my voice was heard,
He breathed with firm distinctness every word.

He had no cause to tremble, for his mind
(If man's can ever be so) was prepared.
In health and strength affectionate and kind,
All must have loved him; and in death he dared
Look up with faith and hope, and was resigned
To his Creator's will. He hath been spared
The ills of a bad world; but we have lost
One most beloved—'tis we who suffer most.

When last we parted, his young heart was sad;
But we were full of hope, that future days
Would bring a happy meeting; and we had
Delightful plans, projecting many ways
Of being blest together; he was glad
To press my hand, and he would often raise
Schemes of unbounded pleasure, shared with me:
This might have been—but this can never be!

We thought of happy meetings, and we met,
But never to be happy; grief and pain
Had changed his cheerful face; my eyes were wet
With tears I laboured to conceal in vain.
I feel his feeble arms embrace me yet,
Whilst mine were thrown around him, and again
I hear him whisper, in a gentle tone,
“My dear, dear friend, I never had but one.”

I took a last sad look, and turned away,
Leaving him in his grave. I used to share
His innocent pursuits; and all the day
Was happy by his side; yet he lies there
Unconscious of the heavy griefs that prey
Upon my wounded heart. My fervent prayer
He hears not, “that the joys we hope above
May be a state of bliss with those we love.”

Ah! yes, we never, never could sustain
The loss of those we value here below,
Had we not Faith, that we shall meet again
In a far better world;—it must be so.
'Tis this that soothes the sick man in his pain;
'Tis this alleviates the mourner's woe;
And this shall be my comfort; though we sever,
I felt—I feel—it cannot be for ever.

And time that changes all things may subdue
My present depth of anguish; I may rove
With those who soothe my sorrow, and renew
The smiles of former days, but I shall love
In solitary hours to think of you,
And sigh for past delights. We soon remove
The mourner's sable garb; but none can know
How long in secret lurks the mourner's woe.