 | Poems |  |
19
THE MOURNERS.
Mourn! mourn with that mother, her life's crown lies shivered,
Her spirit is broken by anguish and love;
She weeps for her child, to the cold grave delivered,
And comfort is none for earth's heart-wounded dove.
Her spirit is broken by anguish and love;
She weeps for her child, to the cold grave delivered,
And comfort is none for earth's heart-wounded dove.
One thought strikes her heart, with its lightning-like burnings—
One phantom of memory clouds her sick brain;
While wrapt in the silence of heart-aches and yearnings,
She hoards up with passion's strange avarice—her pain!
One phantom of memory clouds her sick brain;
While wrapt in the silence of heart-aches and yearnings,
She hoards up with passion's strange avarice—her pain!
20
The dear one whose voice through the blest household bowers,
Still summoned her soul to sweet, serious delight,
Lies perished and pale, like the youngest of flowers,
When earthwards 'tis borne by some withering blight.
Still summoned her soul to sweet, serious delight,
Lies perished and pale, like the youngest of flowers,
When earthwards 'tis borne by some withering blight.
How bright through the long days of summer she moved,
The fawn's gladsome boundings were tame to her step!
Song burst from her heart—she was loving and loved—
Laughter's brilliant melody rang from her lip.
The fawn's gladsome boundings were tame to her step!
Song burst from her heart—she was loving and loved—
Laughter's brilliant melody rang from her lip.
Those tones have now melted from bower and from breeze,
But the mother's heart still with their echoes is thrilling;
Affection's rich cup hath dark gall in its lees!
Fierce agonies 'stead of enchantments distilling!
But the mother's heart still with their echoes is thrilling;
Affection's rich cup hath dark gall in its lees!
Fierce agonies 'stead of enchantments distilling!
21
Mourn! mourn with that sister! grief weighs down her brow;
She dwells but in thoughts of the silent—the sleeping:
A rose o'er a broken rose, twins of one bough,
The dews of its freshness all voicelessly weeping.
She dwells but in thoughts of the silent—the sleeping:
A rose o'er a broken rose, twins of one bough,
The dews of its freshness all voicelessly weeping.
In bitterest sorrow she tracks the green shades;
In long willowy lifelessness droops her fair hair;
The fond hands wont to wreathe and to smooth the bright braids,
May never more tenderly make them their care.
In long willowy lifelessness droops her fair hair;
The fond hands wont to wreathe and to smooth the bright braids,
May never more tenderly make them their care.
But mourn not for her—she is risen, she is fled;
Like a vision of beauty to us she was given.
Now melt earth's dim clouds from that queenlike young head,
O ! mourn not a crowned spirit's transit to heaven!
Like a vision of beauty to us she was given.
Now melt earth's dim clouds from that queenlike young head,
O ! mourn not a crowned spirit's transit to heaven!
| Poems | |