The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey :: :: University of Virginia Library

Outstretched beneath the leafy shade
Of Windsor forest's deepest glade
A dying woman lay;
Three little children round her stood,
And there went up from the greenwood
A woeful wail that day.

“Oh, mother!” was the mingled cry,
“Oh, mother! mother! do not die,
And leave us all alone.”
“My blessed babes!” she strove to say,
But the faint accents died away
In a low sobbing moan.

And then life struggled hard with death,
And fast and strong she drew her breath,
And up she raised her head;
And peering through the deep wood maze,
With a long, sharp, unearthly gaze,
“Will he not come?” she said.

Just then, the parting boughs between,
A little maid's light form was seen,
All breathless with her speed;
And following close a man came on—
A portly man to look upon—
Who led a panting steed.

185

“Mother!” the little maiden cried,
Or e'er she reached the woman's side,
Or kissed her clay-cold cheek,
“I have not idled in the town,
But long went wandering up and down
The Minister to seek.

“They told me here, they told me there,
I think they mocked me everywhere;
And when I found his home,
And begged him, on my bended knee,
To bring his book and come with me,
Mother! he would not come.

“I told him how you dying lay,
And could not go in peace away
Without the Minister:
I begged him for dear Christ His sake;
But oh!—my heart was fit to break—
Mother! he would not stir.

“So, though my tears were blinding me,
I ran back fast as fast could be,
To come again to you:
When here, close by, this Squire I met,
Who asked so mild what made me fret;
And when I told him true,

“‘I will go with you, child,’ he said,
‘God sends me to this dying bed.’
Mother! he's here—hard by.”
While thus the little maiden spoke,
The man, his back against an oak,
Looked on with glistening eye.

186

The bridle on his neck flung free,
With quivering flank and trembling knee,
Pressed close his bonny bay;
A statelier man, a statelier steed,
Paced never greensward glade, I rede,
Than those stood there the day.

So, while the little maiden spoke,
The man, his back against an oak,
Looked on with glistening eye
And folded arms, and in his look
Something that, like a sermon-book,
Said—“All is vanity!”

But when the dying woman's face
Turned toward him with a wistful gaze,
He stept to where she lay,
And kneeling down, bent over her,
Saying—“I am a Minister;
My sister, let us pray.”

And well, withouten book or stole
(God's words were printed on his soul),
Into the dying ear
He poured as 'twere an angel's strain
The things that unto life pertain,
And death's dark shadows clear.

He spoke of sinners' lost estate,
In Christ renewed, regenerate;
Of God's most blest decree,
That not a single soul shall die
Who turns repentant, with the cry,
“Be merciful to me!”

187

Then, as the spirit ebbed away,
He raised his hands and eyes to pray
That peaceful it might pass;
And then—the orphans' wail alone
Was heard, as they knelt, every one,
Close round on the green grass.

Such was the sight their wondering eyes
Beheld, in heart-struck mute surprise,
Who reined their coursers back,
Just as they found the long astray,
Who, in the heat of chase that day,
Had wandered from the track.

Back each man reined his pawing steed,
And lighted down, as if agreed,
In silence at his side;
And there, uncovered all, they stood:
It was a wholesome sight and good,
That day, for mortal pride.

For of the noblest of the land
Was that deep-hushed, bare-headed band;
And, central in the ring,
By that dead pauper on the ground,
Her ragged orphans clinging round,
Knelt their anointed King!