 | Pocahontas, and other poems |  |
107
THE WIDOW'S PRAYER.
The youthful maid, the gentle bride,
The happy wife, her husband's pride,
Who meekly kneel, at morning ray,
The incense of their vows to pay,
Or pour, amid their evening train,
From love's full heart, the incense-strain,
What know they of her anguish'd cry
Who lonely lifts the tearful eye?
No sympathizing glance to view
Her alter'd cheek's unearthly hue,
No soothing tone to quell the power
Of grief that bursts at midnight hour.
O God! her heart is pierced and bare,
Have pity on the widow's prayer.
The happy wife, her husband's pride,
Who meekly kneel, at morning ray,
The incense of their vows to pay,
Or pour, amid their evening train,
From love's full heart, the incense-strain,
What know they of her anguish'd cry
Who lonely lifts the tearful eye?
No sympathizing glance to view
Her alter'd cheek's unearthly hue,
No soothing tone to quell the power
Of grief that bursts at midnight hour.
O God! her heart is pierced and bare,
Have pity on the widow's prayer.
Not like the mother, by whose side
The partner sits, her guard and guide,
Is she who, reft of earthly trust,
Hath laid her bosom's lord in dust.
Sleeps her young babe! but who shall share
Its waking charms, its holy care?
Who shield the daughter's opening bloom,
Whose father moulders in the tomb?
Her son the treacherous world beguiles,
What voice shall warn him of its wiles?
What strong hand break the deadly snare?
O answer, Heaven, the widow's prayer!
For not the breath of prosperous days,
Though warm with joy and wing'd with praise,
E'er kindled such a living coal
Of deep devotion in the soul
As that wild blast, which bore away
Her idol to returnless clay:
And, for the wreath that crown'd the brow,
Left bitter thoughts and hyssop-bough,
A lonely couch, a sever'd tie,
A tear that time can never dry,
Unutter'd wo, unpitied care:
O God! regard the widow's prayer.
The partner sits, her guard and guide,
Is she who, reft of earthly trust,
Hath laid her bosom's lord in dust.
Sleeps her young babe! but who shall share
Its waking charms, its holy care?
Who shield the daughter's opening bloom,
Whose father moulders in the tomb?
Her son the treacherous world beguiles,
What voice shall warn him of its wiles?
What strong hand break the deadly snare?
O answer, Heaven, the widow's prayer!
108
Though warm with joy and wing'd with praise,
E'er kindled such a living coal
Of deep devotion in the soul
As that wild blast, which bore away
Her idol to returnless clay:
And, for the wreath that crown'd the brow,
Left bitter thoughts and hyssop-bough,
A lonely couch, a sever'd tie,
A tear that time can never dry,
Unutter'd wo, unpitied care:
O God! regard the widow's prayer.
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