 | Farm ballads |  |
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THE MOTHER'S RETURN.
The white-winged Winter storm swept swiftly past,
Or paused to hover o'er the farm-house old,
And shed its cold, white plumage on the roof,
Thatching it thicker every icy hour.
A million snow-flakes struggled with the wind,
Careered, and dashed, and fell, and rose again,
As striving, each, to live its longest time,
Ere vanishing to an inglorious whole—
Lost—nevermore a snow-flake.
Or paused to hover o'er the farm-house old,
And shed its cold, white plumage on the roof,
Thatching it thicker every icy hour.
A million snow-flakes struggled with the wind,
Careered, and dashed, and fell, and rose again,
As striving, each, to live its longest time,
Ere vanishing to an inglorious whole—
Lost—nevermore a snow-flake.
Every thing
Wore, on that day, the frost-ringed badge of Death.
The clouds were palls, and every drift a shroud;
The apple-trees were singing funeral hymns,
The leafless maples listening to the dirge;
And on yon hill the wind-stripped forest-trees
Arose like graves of skeletons upright.
Wore, on that day, the frost-ringed badge of Death.
The clouds were palls, and every drift a shroud;
The apple-trees were singing funeral hymns,
The leafless maples listening to the dirge;
And on yon hill the wind-stripped forest-trees
Arose like graves of skeletons upright.
But not content, to-day, with out-door rule,
Death through the cottage-door had made his way
(And who so laughs to scorn the bolts and walls?),
Crouched his chill form before the kitchen fire,
And smiled to see his glance put out the blaze.
Death through the cottage-door had made his way
(And who so laughs to scorn the bolts and walls?),
Crouched his chill form before the kitchen fire,
And smiled to see his glance put out the blaze.
She lay—the mother of a helpless flock—
Unheeding all the childish tears of grief,
That else had wasted not a single note,
Without her loving and consoling kiss.
The children wept hot, scalding, bitter tears,
Or tiptoed drearily from room to room,
As if in search of that bright soul, which once
Had lighted all the house with love and peace;
Or glanced, with eyes half curious and half sad,
At the pale father, who, stunned, bent, and crushed
By this swift blow, was rallying now his strength
To bear the grief.
Unheeding all the childish tears of grief,
That else had wasted not a single note,
Without her loving and consoling kiss.
The children wept hot, scalding, bitter tears,
Or tiptoed drearily from room to room,
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Had lighted all the house with love and peace;
Or glanced, with eyes half curious and half sad,
At the pale father, who, stunned, bent, and crushed
By this swift blow, was rallying now his strength
To bear the grief.
Ah! many friends we love
May climb the gilded mountains of the clouds,
And find the regions of the farther sky,
Ere we can leave this land of fleshly ghosts,
And join the kingdom of realities.
The earth must beat on many a coffin-lid,
Fit time to strains of sorrow in our hearts,
For those above whose lifeless breast it falls.
Life's turnpike scowls with toll-gates of the graves!
And yet, a hundred losses come and go,
Each in its turn may bend us to the earth,
And, while we do but mourn the latest ill,
Some crushing sorrow may outweigh them all!
May climb the gilded mountains of the clouds,
And find the regions of the farther sky,
Ere we can leave this land of fleshly ghosts,
And join the kingdom of realities.
The earth must beat on many a coffin-lid,
Fit time to strains of sorrow in our hearts,
For those above whose lifeless breast it falls.
Life's turnpike scowls with toll-gates of the graves!
And yet, a hundred losses come and go,
Each in its turn may bend us to the earth,
And, while we do but mourn the latest ill,
Some crushing sorrow may outweigh them all!
What picture can be drearier to the heart
Than a loved sister, lying in her shroud?
To feel no more the clinging confidence
That rested on you from her clear, pure eyes;
To know that Death, a suitor undesired,
Has proudly drawn that lingering hand from yours,
And led her silently away with him,
Into the shadows of his own dark land;
To feel so many flowers of memory nipped
By the same frost that rests upon her brow;
To think of all the past—the darling past—
With half-neglected sweets, forever gone;
Ah, yes!—a sister's loss is hard to bear;
But there are other griefs.
Than a loved sister, lying in her shroud?
To feel no more the clinging confidence
That rested on you from her clear, pure eyes;
To know that Death, a suitor undesired,
Has proudly drawn that lingering hand from yours,
And led her silently away with him,
Into the shadows of his own dark land;
To feel so many flowers of memory nipped
By the same frost that rests upon her brow;
To think of all the past—the darling past—
With half-neglected sweets, forever gone;
Ah, yes!—a sister's loss is hard to bear;
But there are other griefs.
A brother's grave
Rests ever 'neath the head-stone of despair.
There is no sound so mournful as the hush
That lingers o'er a sturdy death-stilled heart;
No power that so the tender soul can move
As the inaction of a brawny arm.
For Memory lingers with us round that grave,
Awarding and avenging all the past:
Pouring a balm for each good act and word,
And dealing thrusts for all that was unkind;
While Pity hovers all about the scene,
And weeps that one so strong should helpless lie.
Ah, yes! a brother's loss is hard to bear!
And yet, there are more griefs.
Rests ever 'neath the head-stone of despair.
There is no sound so mournful as the hush
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No power that so the tender soul can move
As the inaction of a brawny arm.
For Memory lingers with us round that grave,
Awarding and avenging all the past:
Pouring a balm for each good act and word,
And dealing thrusts for all that was unkind;
While Pity hovers all about the scene,
And weeps that one so strong should helpless lie.
Ah, yes! a brother's loss is hard to bear!
And yet, there are more griefs.
A father's voice
May hush its words of counsel and reproof,
Its blessings, and its hopeful words of cheer,
And sink in Silence's unfathomed sea.
A father's coffin holds a treasure lost;
A father's love is wondrous strong and true,
Even though not unmixed with selfish pride;
A father's loss is heavy to be born;
But there are drearier, heavier griefs.
May hush its words of counsel and reproof,
Its blessings, and its hopeful words of cheer,
And sink in Silence's unfathomed sea.
A father's coffin holds a treasure lost;
A father's love is wondrous strong and true,
Even though not unmixed with selfish pride;
A father's loss is heavy to be born;
But there are drearier, heavier griefs.
The pang—
The cruel pang, the never-ceasing pang—
That turns the sweets of life to bitterness,
All zephyrs unto tempests, and each breeze
To organ tones of woe; the hopeless pang
That pits rebellious life against itself,
When the strong cord, the golden, love-charged cord,
That holds a wife and mother to her own,
Severs, and falls in ruins at our feet,
And mocks us with its brightness 'mid the dust!
There is no loss, except the loss of heaven,
Like that which fills a wife and mother's shroud;
There is no love, except the love of God,
Like that which fills a wife and mother's heart.
The cruel pang, the never-ceasing pang—
That turns the sweets of life to bitterness,
All zephyrs unto tempests, and each breeze
To organ tones of woe; the hopeless pang
That pits rebellious life against itself,
When the strong cord, the golden, love-charged cord,
That holds a wife and mother to her own,
Severs, and falls in ruins at our feet,
And mocks us with its brightness 'mid the dust!
There is no loss, except the loss of heaven,
Like that which fills a wife and mother's shroud;
There is no love, except the love of God,
Like that which fills a wife and mother's heart.
It is a fire that never can be quenched,
Though base ingratitude be on it poured;
Though wickedness may wrap and clasp it 'round.
E'en he who flees the answer to its prayers,
Still sees, along his crookéd, thorny path,
The sweet refulgence of its constant light.
And though he creep through vilest caves of sin,
And crouch, perhaps, with bleared and bloodshot eyes,
Under the hangman's rope—a mother's lips
Will kiss him in his last bed of disgrace,
And love him e'en for what she hoped of him.
Though base ingratitude be on it poured;
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E'en he who flees the answer to its prayers,
Still sees, along his crookéd, thorny path,
The sweet refulgence of its constant light.
And though he creep through vilest caves of sin,
And crouch, perhaps, with bleared and bloodshot eyes,
Under the hangman's rope—a mother's lips
Will kiss him in his last bed of disgrace,
And love him e'en for what she hoped of him.
While yet reposed the mother of that flock,
In the white drapery of her burial robes,
The door swung swiftly on its creaking hinge,
And, heeding not the startled, wondering look
Of the sad father, as he raised his eyes,
And sighed for sorrow of the hopeless past,
A young and fragile form crept softly in,
With locks dishevelled, with tear-fevered eyes,
And face as white as she had been the dead.
Upon her brow were drawn long lines of care,
And marks that told of waywardness and vice.
Scarce heeding them whose wondering lips arose,
She hastened to the sleeper; and with tears
Of penitence, that well might pay the debt
That sin and disobedience had run up—
If tears could pay such debts—she clasped the form
Unto her breast, and kissed the unanswering lips,
And thus she spoke:
In the white drapery of her burial robes,
The door swung swiftly on its creaking hinge,
And, heeding not the startled, wondering look
Of the sad father, as he raised his eyes,
And sighed for sorrow of the hopeless past,
A young and fragile form crept softly in,
With locks dishevelled, with tear-fevered eyes,
And face as white as she had been the dead.
Upon her brow were drawn long lines of care,
And marks that told of waywardness and vice.
Scarce heeding them whose wondering lips arose,
She hastened to the sleeper; and with tears
Of penitence, that well might pay the debt
That sin and disobedience had run up—
If tears could pay such debts—she clasped the form
Unto her breast, and kissed the unanswering lips,
And thus she spoke:
“O mother, mother lost!
Thou 'rt here, yet gone so far! I still can see
The gentle smile that lingers on thy face,
But can not hear thy kind, consoling voice!
My impure lips may kiss thy sacred cheek,
Yet feel no kindly pressure back again!
My words of grief and penitence may fall,
With pardon humbly asked, upon thine ear,
And yet thou canst not hear them; and no word
Of blest forgiveness canst thou answer back!
“O mother, wronged, wronged, foully, bitterly!
Crushed by ingratitude, and all the shame
That one like me could heap upon thy pride!
Spurned, when thou followedst me, e'en in my guilt,
Down to the darkest depths of wayward sin,
And begged, with tears, that I would come with thee,
And tread the paths of virtue once again!
Thou 'rt here, yet gone so far! I still can see
The gentle smile that lingers on thy face,
But can not hear thy kind, consoling voice!
My impure lips may kiss thy sacred cheek,
Yet feel no kindly pressure back again!
My words of grief and penitence may fall,
With pardon humbly asked, upon thine ear,
And yet thou canst not hear them; and no word
Of blest forgiveness canst thou answer back!
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Crushed by ingratitude, and all the shame
That one like me could heap upon thy pride!
Spurned, when thou followedst me, e'en in my guilt,
Down to the darkest depths of wayward sin,
And begged, with tears, that I would come with thee,
And tread the paths of virtue once again!
“Give to me but one word; one little word
Of pardon, for the dark and shameful past;
One short, one fleeting word; nay, even a breath;
Or lend to me a sign; a smile; a glance;
That I may feel forgiveness for my sin!
I can not see thee laid into thy grave,
Without one word of pardon and of love!
And if, O God! thou wilt but let her come,
But just to speak one single word to me,
I vow to Thee my lips shall sing Thy praise,
My heart shall beat accordance with Thy word,
And truth and virtue shall adorn my life,
Until this weary heart may cease to beat.”
Of pardon, for the dark and shameful past;
One short, one fleeting word; nay, even a breath;
Or lend to me a sign; a smile; a glance;
That I may feel forgiveness for my sin!
I can not see thee laid into thy grave,
Without one word of pardon and of love!
And if, O God! thou wilt but let her come,
But just to speak one single word to me,
I vow to Thee my lips shall sing Thy praise,
My heart shall beat accordance with Thy word,
And truth and virtue shall adorn my life,
Until this weary heart may cease to beat.”
As the frail plantlet, bursting from its seed,
Casts off the earth that rests upon its head,
And springs to new-made beauty—so this prayer,
Cleaving the guilt and shame that o'er it hung,
Bloomed fair and pure before the All-seeing eye.
And it was answered. From her deathly trance
The mother woke; and, lifting up her head,
Said, “Where am I?—a deep, long sleep was mine.
I dreamed that in the fields of Paradise,
A shepherdess, I watched and fed a flock;
Till the Almighty came to me, and said,
‘Matron, return unto thy flock below,
For they are chilled by the cold, wintry storm.
And one, which long time went from thee astray,
Worn, soiled, but penitent, to-day returns.
She shall henceforth be led by Heaven's pure light,
And thou shalt take her, chastened, to thine arms.’”
Casts off the earth that rests upon its head,
And springs to new-made beauty—so this prayer,
Cleaving the guilt and shame that o'er it hung,
Bloomed fair and pure before the All-seeing eye.
And it was answered. From her deathly trance
The mother woke; and, lifting up her head,
Said, “Where am I?—a deep, long sleep was mine.
I dreamed that in the fields of Paradise,
A shepherdess, I watched and fed a flock;
Till the Almighty came to me, and said,
‘Matron, return unto thy flock below,
For they are chilled by the cold, wintry storm.
And one, which long time went from thee astray,
Worn, soiled, but penitent, to-day returns.
She shall henceforth be led by Heaven's pure light,
And thou shalt take her, chastened, to thine arms.’”
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