 | Poems |  |
130
SUDDEN DEATH OF A LADY.
No sound the ear of Midnight heard,
No ripple woke the stream,
No breath the slumbering rose-leaf stirred
Nor marred Affection's dream:
On Winter's pavement, sheen and cold,
There was no echoing tread,
No hand upon the curtain's fold,
Yet on the Spoiler sped.
No ripple woke the stream,
No breath the slumbering rose-leaf stirred
Nor marred Affection's dream:
On Winter's pavement, sheen and cold,
There was no echoing tread,
No hand upon the curtain's fold,
Yet on the Spoiler sped.
The Spoiler Spirit! what sought he
Within that blissful bower!—
The gold on which Care turns the key
To thwart the robber's power!
Pale, gleaming pearls that er'st did glow
Down in the deep, dark seas?
The diamond or the ruby? No!
He came not forth for these.
Within that blissful bower!—
The gold on which Care turns the key
To thwart the robber's power!
Pale, gleaming pearls that er'st did glow
Down in the deep, dark seas?
The diamond or the ruby? No!
He came not forth for these.
Morn rose, and sweet the sabbath-bell
From tower and dell did break,
And with a high and solemn swell
Glad praise God's temple spake:
But where is she, with form of grace,
With cheek serenely fair,
Who near God's altar loved the place?
Go ask the Spoiler where!
From tower and dell did break,
And with a high and solemn swell
Glad praise God's temple spake:
But where is she, with form of grace,
With cheek serenely fair,
Who near God's altar loved the place?
Go ask the Spoiler where!
131
Slow Evening veiled yon rifled bower,
An infant group are there,
Why doth no mother mark the hour
To hear their murmured prayer?
And why doth grief's unwonted tide
O'erflow their wondering eye?
They mourn to think their angel-guide
Should turn from them, and die.
An infant group are there,
Why doth no mother mark the hour
To hear their murmured prayer?
And why doth grief's unwonted tide
O'erflow their wondering eye?
They mourn to think their angel-guide
Should turn from them, and die.
Dear, beauteous babes! On you the morn
Fresh beams of hope shall pour,
Ye know not from your arms is torn
What earth can ne'er restore:
Yet one is near, whose widowed breast,
Whose brow, stern Sorrow's prey,
In lines too strong for speech, attest
What Death hath borne away.
Fresh beams of hope shall pour,
Ye know not from your arms is torn
What earth can ne'er restore:
Yet one is near, whose widowed breast,
Whose brow, stern Sorrow's prey,
In lines too strong for speech, attest
What Death hath borne away.
Love yields the grave its idol-trust,
While the rent heart-strings bleed,
But Faith, whose pinion scorns the dust,
Blames not the Spoiler's deed;
A new and tuneful lyre she hears,
Where joys forever bloom,
And bids us through our blinding tears
Write blessed on the tomb.
While the rent heart-strings bleed,
But Faith, whose pinion scorns the dust,
Blames not the Spoiler's deed;
A new and tuneful lyre she hears,
Where joys forever bloom,
And bids us through our blinding tears
Write blessed on the tomb.
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