 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
THE WIDOW.
We parted: oh! it was a painful hour!
Not that I thought him lost to me for ever,
I knew that mighty love's resistless power
Would re-unite us, ne'er again to sever;
For we are wedded—not as thoughtless mortals,
Incited only by terrestial views,
Enter that sacred fane's mysterious portals.
Our souls are wedded; that assurance strews
My widowed path with flowers of fadeless hues.
Not that I thought him lost to me for ever,
I knew that mighty love's resistless power
Would re-unite us, ne'er again to sever;
For we are wedded—not as thoughtless mortals,
Incited only by terrestial views,
Enter that sacred fane's mysterious portals.
Our souls are wedded; that assurance strews
My widowed path with flowers of fadeless hues.
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Yet is the briefest parting hard; for love,
Deprived of wisdom, is a rayless sun;
A summer midnight, when no star above
Throws down one cheering ray; 't is GOOD, alone,
Without her partner TRUTH; or it resembles
Warm melting CHARITY, intent to bless,
When without FAITH to guide her steps, she trembles
O'er the dark scene of human wretchedness,
Wondering if Heaven permits or wills distress.
Deprived of wisdom, is a rayless sun;
A summer midnight, when no star above
Throws down one cheering ray; 't is GOOD, alone,
Without her partner TRUTH; or it resembles
Warm melting CHARITY, intent to bless,
When without FAITH to guide her steps, she trembles
O'er the dark scene of human wretchedness,
Wondering if Heaven permits or wills distress.
'T was hard to part; and while his spirit hovered
On the cold lips my kisses could not warm,
I prayed and murmured; but, alas! when covered
By the dark pall, they bore that manly form
To its cold grave, I lost the pang of sorrow,
For reason fled, and I 'd a dreamless sleep;
But woke, in anguish, on the coming morrow,
No more to murmur, pray, or even weep,
For grief is ever silent when it 's deep.
On the cold lips my kisses could not warm,
I prayed and murmured; but, alas! when covered
By the dark pall, they bore that manly form
To its cold grave, I lost the pang of sorrow,
For reason fled, and I 'd a dreamless sleep;
But woke, in anguish, on the coming morrow,
No more to murmur, pray, or even weep,
For grief is ever silent when it 's deep.
Humbled to earth, my self-upbraiding soul,
With mental tongue, exclaimed, Thy will be done!
When, through my bosom, such a feeling stole
As mocks the power of language; it was one
Of those delicious thrills of nameless rapture
We feel, when conscience, Heaven, and friends approve;
When earthly joys have lost their power to capture;
For Reuben's spirit whispered, “Peace, sweet dove,
We're joined for ever, in Conjugial Love.
With mental tongue, exclaimed, Thy will be done!
When, through my bosom, such a feeling stole
As mocks the power of language; it was one
Of those delicious thrills of nameless rapture
We feel, when conscience, Heaven, and friends approve;
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For Reuben's spirit whispered, “Peace, sweet dove,
We're joined for ever, in Conjugial Love.
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |