 | Eonchs of ruby. A Gift of Love |  |
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THRENODY.
COMPOSED ON THE DEATH OF MY LITTLE BOY.
“I will complain in the bitterness of my soul.”—
Job, vii. 11.
Job, vii. 11.
I.
By the Waters of Salvation,Christ's Salvation, full of pain—
Christ's Salvation, in probation,
I sit down in tribulation,
And now write this Lamentation
For the lost, the early slain!
Waiting, (hoping for salvation,)
For his coming back again.
II.
Ah! Angelic was my Tommy,Tommy, Death has early slain,
Tommy taken early from me!
Whose sweet life did so become me,
That his death doth now consume me—
Parching up my heart with pain!
Ah! Angelic was my Tommy—
Never coming back again!
III.
How I miss him in the summer,Summer of the Golden Grain—
Summer, when the dove doth murmur
For the mate that is torn from her—
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All her heart's melodious pain!
Waiting all the livelong summer
For his coming back again!
IV.
Early frosted Flower of Aiden,Aiden where there is no pain—
Aiden where the soul lives laden
With the joys that are unfaden—
Saintly Lily, infant maiden,
Ada of my heart of pain!
Thou art with him now in Aiden—
Never coming back again!
V.
Like the glorified Orion,Blest Orion who was slain!
Bright Orion who lives high on
High Eternity's Mount Zion—
So my little Christ did die on
This dark Calvary of pain!
Like the glorified Orion—
Never coming back again!
VI.
In that undefiled bright Thule,Thule of eternal gain—
Thule were the soul sees newly
From the Isles of Inatula
To the golden bowered Beula,
Where his Saviour Christ doth reign;
In that undefiled bright Thule—
Never coming back again!
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VII.
All my days are spent in weeping,Weeping for the early slain—
Weeping, patient vigils keeping
By the grave where he is sleeping,
Sorrow from Death's field still reaping
Reaping for the early slain!
All my days are spent in weeping
For his coming back again!
VIII.
On the earth are now no traces,Traces of his former reign—
Traces, where the joyful faces
Of his sisters, like the Graces,
Made an Eden of the places
Where they met in my domain;
On the earth are now no traces
Of his coming back again!
IX.
I shall never more see Pleasure,Pleasure never more, but pain—
Pleasure, losing that dear treasure
Whom I loved here without measure,
Whose sweet eyes were Heaven's own azure,
Sparkling, mild, like sunny rain!
I shall never more see Pleasure
For his coming back again!
X.
How my weary soul doth miss him,Miss him here in bitter pain—
Miss him when I want to kiss him,
At the night when I should bless him,
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For the bed where he has lain!
How my soul doth always miss him—
Never coming back again!
XI.
How we miss his songs of gladness,Gladness far too deep for pain—
Gladness too divine for sadness,
Poured with such exultant madness
That it seemed just done for badness,
As in sunshine falls the rain;
All my soul is turned to sadness
For his coming back again!
XII.
How my soul doth long to meet him,Meet him in this world again—
Meet him where I used to greet him,
As the Saints in Heaven now treat him—
On my vacant knees to seat him,
Where in joy he used to reign;
How my soul doth long to meet him
In this trying world again!
XIII.
Where the nightingale sits singing,Singing with impassioned pain—
Singing, while the Heavens are ringing
With his river-song upspringing—
Into Heaven his soul went winging
Of its way with Christ to reign;
There my little Bird sits singing—
Never coming back again!
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XIV.
All my tears are unavailing,Unavailing all this pain—
Unavailing all this wailing
Of my heart that now is failing
With its weight of wo, unveiling
All my soul's deep grief in vain!
All my sighs are unavailing—
He will never come again!
XV.
Soon my sighing soul, death-blighted,Blighted, racked with bitter pain—
Blighted, burthened, all benighted,
Shall in Heaven above be righted,
Glorified, redeemed, requited,
When it meets my early slain;
There to wait no more death-blighted,
For his coming back again.
XVI.
Hang thy harp upon the willow,Willow weeping tears of rain—
Willow shading the soft billow
Of his grave with light so mellow,
Just above the satin pillow
Where his head so long has lain!
Hang thy harp upon the willow—
He will never come again!
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XVII.
Ah! when shall I ever hold him,Hold him in these arms again?
Hold him, tenderly enfold him,
And with tears of joy behold him,
And retell what I have told him—
Kissing him with joyful pain!—
Up in Heaven I shall behold him—
I shall meet him there again.
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