 | THE MOURNFUL VISIT. Water-drops |  |
35. THE MOURNFUL VISIT.
I Turned me toward a cottage, round whose porch
Climbed the gay woodbine, and whose quiet roof
Seemed through its leafy canopy to smile
A welcome to the guest.
My heart was light
As near this rural haunt I drew, to greet
An early friend, with whom the joyous sport
Mid neighboring schoolmates,—all our lessons done,
Had oft been shared.
Beside the open door
Two cherub-children gambol'd. One displayed
In vivid miniature, the father's face,—
Such as in memory's casket still it dwelt,—
The high, bold forehead, and full, hazel eye,
Gentle, yet ardent. On, with winning smile
He led his fairy sister, murmuring low
In varied tones of playful tenderness,—
Or sometimes bending o'er her fragile form
In mimic guardianship, with such a grace,
That to my heart I pressed him, as I said,
“Show me thy father.”
Climbed the gay woodbine, and whose quiet roof
Seemed through its leafy canopy to smile
A welcome to the guest.
My heart was light
As near this rural haunt I drew, to greet
An early friend, with whom the joyous sport
Mid neighboring schoolmates,—all our lessons done,
Had oft been shared.
Beside the open door
Two cherub-children gambol'd. One displayed
In vivid miniature, the father's face,—
Such as in memory's casket still it dwelt,—
The high, bold forehead, and full, hazel eye,
Gentle, yet ardent. On, with winning smile
He led his fairy sister, murmuring low
In varied tones of playful tenderness,—
Or sometimes bending o'er her fragile form
In mimic guardianship, with such a grace,
That to my heart I pressed him, as I said,
“Show me thy father.”
198
To a couch he led,
Where lay a man. I could not call him friend,—
So chang'd! Had sickness marr'd the noble brow,
Once wont to beam with intellectual light,
And glow with glad benevolence?
Ah, no!—
For then I might have poured a soothing balm
Of sympathy, and raised the sufferer's heart
To God, the Healer.—But I knew too well
The coloring of the seal that Vice had stamped
On form and feature.
And she, too, was there,
Who at the altar gave her hallowed vow,
In all the trusting confidence of love,
To this, her chosen one. On her young cheek
There was a cankering grief, and the pale trace
Of beauty's rose-bud blighted.
When I spake,
Recalling memories of our early days,—
Where in the paths of science and of peace
We trod with many a friend, his bloated lips
Swelled out with stupid laughter, and such words
As flippant folly utters.
At the voice
Of those young creatures playing near his bed,
His fiery eyeballs flashed, and brutal threats
Appalled their innocent hearts,—till that fair girl
From whom intemperance thus had reft the guide
Where lay a man. I could not call him friend,—
So chang'd! Had sickness marr'd the noble brow,
Once wont to beam with intellectual light,
And glow with glad benevolence?
Ah, no!—
For then I might have poured a soothing balm
Of sympathy, and raised the sufferer's heart
To God, the Healer.—But I knew too well
The coloring of the seal that Vice had stamped
On form and feature.
And she, too, was there,
Who at the altar gave her hallowed vow,
In all the trusting confidence of love,
To this, her chosen one. On her young cheek
There was a cankering grief, and the pale trace
Of beauty's rose-bud blighted.
When I spake,
Recalling memories of our early days,—
Where in the paths of science and of peace
We trod with many a friend, his bloated lips
Swelled out with stupid laughter, and such words
As flippant folly utters.
At the voice
Of those young creatures playing near his bed,
His fiery eyeballs flashed, and brutal threats
Appalled their innocent hearts,—till that fair girl
From whom intemperance thus had reft the guide
199
That Nature gave, in terror, hid her face
Deep in her mother's robe.
I would have spoke
In bitter blame of that most poisonous cup,
And of the vice that seared a noble soul,—
But that I saw within the sunken eye
Of that long-suffering wife, the pleading tear
Of silent, fond forbearance. So all thought
Of sternness, breathed itself away in sighs.—
But as I went my way, I mourned the lot
Of that sad widowhood, and orphanage,
That hath nor hope nor pity.
Sad, I roamed
Along the grassy vale, and when no eye
Beheld me, gave free passage to the tear
And prayer of bitter anguish.
Oh, my God!
Without whose aid the proudest strength of man,
And fairest promise, are but broken reeds,—
So shield us from temptation, and from sin
Deliver us,—that we unscathed may rise
Our earthly trials o'er, where Virtue dwells
Fast by her Sire, and tastes a deathless joy.
Deep in her mother's robe.
I would have spoke
In bitter blame of that most poisonous cup,
And of the vice that seared a noble soul,—
But that I saw within the sunken eye
Of that long-suffering wife, the pleading tear
Of silent, fond forbearance. So all thought
Of sternness, breathed itself away in sighs.—
But as I went my way, I mourned the lot
Of that sad widowhood, and orphanage,
That hath nor hope nor pity.
Sad, I roamed
Along the grassy vale, and when no eye
Beheld me, gave free passage to the tear
And prayer of bitter anguish.
Oh, my God!
Without whose aid the proudest strength of man,
And fairest promise, are but broken reeds,—
So shield us from temptation, and from sin
Deliver us,—that we unscathed may rise
Our earthly trials o'er, where Virtue dwells
Fast by her Sire, and tastes a deathless joy.
| THE MOURNFUL VISIT. Water-drops | |