Miscellaneous Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

I knew thee as a blooming child,
While yet thy little life was new;
I knew thee as a maiden mild,
To all thy tasks of duty true.
And I was with thee, when there came
Soft breathings of diviner flame,
A voice once heard, and heard no more,
“Thy work is done, thy rest begun,
The Master waiteth at the door.”

A. B.

[Count not my years, nor ask how long]

Count not my years, nor ask how long
I dwelt on earth, a homeless guest;
But ask if hope and faith were strong,
To lead me to eternal rest.

Ask not, if with the poor, and meek,
Or rich, and great, I had my share;
But hear me of my treasure speak,
My only treasure—faith and prayer.

I found, what, stranger, thou wilt find,
How poor the world, how rich the grave;
And earthly treasure all resign'd
For that one promise,—“I will save.”

A. B.

[Her brief and blameless life in mercy closed]

Her brief and blameless life in mercy closed,
Ere sin had smote her, and her beauteous birth
Become a theme for sorrow;—she reposed
A moment here,—then vanished from the earth.

This was no world for her, and so her prayer
Rose to the fount of love—“Thou knowest best,
Lord, let Thy will be done—yet take me there,
There, with Thy Holy Ones and Thee to rest.”

A. B

[Fair hopes and sunny visions once were hers]

Fair hopes and sunny visions once were hers,
That mov'd along the silver chords of life,
As youth impell'd them with her breath of joy,
Who saw no cloud beneath the morning sky
To dim its lustre;—so to me she seem'd
Like to an angel on the earth who stands
Waiting with eye uprais'd, to reascend,
Entering the gates of heaven; and thus divine
Mercy restored her to a better home
Than Earth can give the children of her love,
Herself create in sorrow,—yea a poor
And widowed mother, who with troubled eye
Bends dimly o'er her book of living woe.

A. B.

[One said—“He counted it a crime]

One said—“He counted it a crime
To mourn for any overmuch.”—
Alas! it is in mourning such
As her I lov'd, I conquer Time.

Who loves the living—he must see
What most he cherish'd, disappear;
They fade, change, vanish year by year;
Earth's sorrow is o'er all that be.

Sweet bells, that welcome home the bride,
On silver wings of music flown;
For her to-morrow change your tone,
Who in her morn of gladness died.

Then let me sit beside her grave,
Mid those pale violets blooming there;
And think, like them, as sweet, as fair,
Was she, whose presence now I crave.

A. B.

[They call'd my Grief an idle tale]

They call'd my Grief an idle tale,
They said such weakness leads to woe;
I said,—“that substance passeth show,
And truth doth evermore prevail.”

They said,—Death even now doth stand
'Twixt her and you, and still you grieve,
As one unwillingly doth leave
The hopes that elsewhere he hath plann'd.

They told me, these were fancies wild,
Wild fancies of the wilder'd brain;
And then I answered them again;—
One knelt beside a dying child,

He listened to her latest prayer;
He heard on earth her closing sigh,
To him she turn'd her fainting eye,
No marvel,—if his heart be there;

Life's lengthening shadows deeper grow,
What most I love, is in the grave;
Oh! memory! ever faithful, save,
The thoughts of those I lov'd below.

A. B.

[A ring of silver clouds above]

A ring of silver clouds above,
Floats round the moon in circles light;
As they were come, like handmaids bright,
To gaze, and wait on her they love.

So holiest thoughts did round thee stand,
Nurs'd in their sweet and silent nest;
They said—as to thy bosom prest,
“Her soul is ever in her hand.”

Her prayer—it in her meekness lies,
In meekness of the heart profound;
With eyes submissive to the ground;
So pray “the children of the wise.”

Psalm cxix. 109. “My soul is always in my hand.”

The Talmud directs the more devout Jews, and “the Disciples of the Wise,” to pray with their eyes downward. The humility of the Publican, says Grotius, made that submissive manner be imitated by Christians. He refers to Tertullian and to Cyprian on the Lord's Prayer. The usual attitude was, “In cœlum suspicientes, manibus expansis, capite nudo.”—1 Pauli Ep. Tim. ii. 8.

A. B.

[Through what sweet paths of Nature, wert thou drawn]

Through what sweet paths of Nature, wert thou drawn,
That so meek Wisdom best might come to thee,
Bringing her gifts divine, her treasures free,
With lights to lead thee, through Life's early dawn!

Earth has no flowers that bloom'd not to thy tread;
The melodies of birds from bough to bough,
Aërial music—louder heard, and now
As gently following, where the echoes led.

And thus the world of beauty round thee rose,
And from afar the viewless Spirits came,
Filling each sense with that diviner flame
Of inward life, that still increasing flows.

The vernal clouds, the motions of the sea,—
The trembling lustre of the stars were thine;
Soft fall of waters heard at eve's decline,
And sounds remote of winds, that wander free.

Nor less the Seasons in mysterious change,
Rose to thy view; young Spring his leafy crown
Wore with a smile of pride, or Autumn brown,
Among his tawny forests lov'd to range.

Such were thy gentle teachers—round thee so,
Link'd in their bands harmonious, would they move;
While clad in all his roseate colours, Love
Gave to Life's golden morn a brighter glow.

A. B.

[By day, by night, I mourn'd, as it is meet]

By day, by night, I mourn'd, as it is meet,
For one I lov'd so well, who could not stay
Longer amid the common light of day;
The pretty flow'ret smiling at my feet,
My little Rose of beauty fled away.

My heart is wean'd from all I see below;
Small sympathy exists 'twixt earth and me;
We walk in pathways of our own—to be
Belov'd of her, is all I craved to know.
Blind to the outward world, I would not see.

Henceforth the world I lov'd, and I, are twain;
I've traced its mask of falsehood through and through,
And I have brush'd it from me, as the dew
That morning gathers in the vernal plain;
Then said I—“I will search, and find the True.”

A. B.

[Oh! call not this an unregarded grave]

Oh! call not this an unregarded grave,
Where innocence, and youth, and beauty lie
Secure from sorrow and the things that die
And perish—powerless themselves to save.

Nor blame me, if to soothe my sorrows deep,
Yea in my troubled spirit, and the strife
And conflict moving betwixt death and life,
I built a sacred grotto for her sleep.

I thought of the small pearl who loves to dwell
(Such dreams would cross the weak, afflicted heart),
So that the gentle creature could not part,
With the small palace of its lonely shell.

I thought of the soft star, whose dewy ray,
Mid clouds and covering darkness slept unknown,
At length, on wings of light away hath flown,
And rose, and brighten'd to eternal day.

And so within Earth's gentle bosom slept
This little Saint, and I my grief beguil'd,
For that I placed the pure and spotless child
Where all sweet works of nature o'er her wept.

Then said I—“I will strive as duty can,
Burying my grief forlorn, my earthly pain;
Forgive them! oh! forgive, my sorrows vain,
Thou, the great Master of the mind of man.”

Origen calls the place of our Saviour's birth αντρον. Hence the text of Eusebius should be corrected, which absurdly reads αγρον. Histor. lib.iii. This did not escape the critical eye of Casaubon. See his Exercit. in Baronii Annales, p.147.

A. B.

[A little child lies sleeping here]

A little child lies sleeping here,
A creature made divinely wise;
Her heart was ever in the skies;
Approach, and bless her—with a tear.

Who said?—“I cannot find relief;—
My soul is a forgotten thing;
Where can I, where, my comfort bring?”—
Oh! words of sorrow! words of grief!

Oh! voice of sadness to the ear!
Oh! language of despair profound!
Forget, forgive the fatal sound;
And kneel for hopes of mercy here.

Kneel here, and let this humble grave,
A sacred Temple prove to thee,
Poor broken heart! oh! haste and flee,
Where lives the Pow'r—the will to save.

Thy wants—thy weakness best He knows,
Thy vain desires—thy fancies wild;
Be pure and faithful as a child,
And thou shalt find a child's repose.

“My soul is a forgotten thing.” See one of Cowper's earlier Letters, ed. Southey.

A. B.

[The gentle playmates of her youth are near]

The gentle playmates of her youth are near,
The soft companions of her earlier days;
Yet she, of all the fairest, is not here,
And Love, beside her grave, in sorrow prays.

“Return, alas! return,”—in vain they cry,
Why, in thy maiden sweetness, art thou fled?
Why leave the realms of life, and gladness?—why
Doth youth's bright morning waken for the dead?

Vain sorrows—fond complaints—and weeping vain!
For she hath reached her beauteous home above;
Recalled by heavenly voice, and free from stain,
To join the kingdom meek of joy and love.

In the “blest kingdom meek.”—Milton's Lycidas, vs. 177.

A. B.

[Heaven's pavement strewn with roses was the floor]

Heaven's pavement strewn with roses was the floor
On which she trod—the crystal skies above—
And those sweet angels, sisters of her love,
In their soft arms their beauteous burden bore.

They bore her to the Paradise of souls,
Promised to those, the sinless things, that be
Taken from Time into Eternity
While warm the tide of life within them rolls.

Then wrong her not with sad lament, they say—
Who to her home of happiness is fled,
Early redeemed in glory from the dead,
To dwell 'mid regions of eternal day.

But I am of the Earth on which I live,
And so Earth's common suff'rings will be mine;
And ever o'er her grave at eve's decline,
My sorrows to her gentle shade I give.

A. B.

[Her gentle voice no more is heard]

Her gentle voice no more is heard,
Her little heart will beat no more;
Her soft eye, blue as Summer skies,
Is closed beneath the grassy floor.

Beside the grave a shadow sits,
A mother's cheek is pale with woe;
The tears that darken round her, tell
How deep the fountains whence they flow.

I knelt beside her, and I bent
To kiss that sweet and sinless brow;
Forgive me, in my prayer, I cried,
'Tis best, I feel, as it is now.

'Tis best to be with those that rest,
Amid thy holy ones, and thee,
Within thy paradise to dwell,
And live beneath Life's blessed Tree.

See Revelation xxii. 14. “Blessed are they that do his commandments, that they may have right to the Tree of Life,” &c.

A. B.

[“So young, so fair, and must we lose thee now]

“So young, so fair, and must we lose thee now,
Child of our fondest love, and must we part?”
Such was the grief that dimm'd a father's brow,
And such the anguish of a mother's heart.

Ah! felt they not, that in that fatal day,
To her a new immortal life was given;—
That the free soul threw off its load of clay,
And the young Seraph took her flight to heaven?

A. B.

[Stranger, in this small grave there lies]

Stranger, in this small grave there lies
All a mother's heart could prize;
It was a little treasure, lent
For some few years, with wise intent,
By Him, who in his mercy gave
To innocence an early grave;
Yet He left not in despair
All that fond maternal care,
But promise made, with parting breath,
That could force unwilling death,
His gentle burden to restore,
When at heaven's opening door,
All pain and sorrow reconciled,
Should meet the mother and the child.
Child and mother, happy twain,
Never more to part again;
Each by suffering purer made
For that blest life, that ne'er shall fade.

Leads to the Land where sorrow is unknown.”

Cowper.

A. B.

[“Sweets to the sweet.”]

“Sweets to the sweet.” —Then let the seasons bring
Their tributary gifts to deck her tomb;
Call from their sleep the earliest buds of Spring,
Let Summer's breath awake her roseate bloom.

From every moss-grown dell, and leafy nook,
Let the wild flowers their colour'd wings expand;
And what beside the murmurs of the brook
Build their sweet bowers, by whisp'ring zephyrs fann'd.

What the green orchards of their glory shed;
What the soft winds from blushing thickets bear;
All that the silver dews of April fed,
There strew—the sorrow of our hearts is there.

So leave them in their beauty;—let them be,
Emblems, though frail, of Mercy, bringing down,
Dear child, its bright and fadeless wreath to thee,—
The immortal verdure of the Amaranth crown.

Hamlet, Act v. Sc. 1.—“Sweets to the sweet,—farewell.”

A. B.

[Look once more, ere we part!—What is, is best.—]

Look once more, ere we part!—What is, is best.—
So Wisdom her mild counsels brings about,
In ways unsearchable—nor let us doubt,
Seeing that she, the lov'd one, is at rest.

Her face is veil'd; —beside her, Faith and Love,
The appointed watchers sit;—Death comes not near;
In calm and sinless peace she sleepeth here,
Shelter'd by wings of mercy from above.

Like to some heavenly guest to earth she came,
To bless us with her innocence, and die;
Bearing her little lamp into the sky,
Which she had fill'd with pure celestial flame.

Farewell! farewell! now let me part, alone;
Thick clouds around are gathering, and the gloom
Of coming woes, like night, doth o'er us loom,
With sorrows darker than the earth should own.

See Milton's Sonnet xxv. on his wife's death. Also Dante, Rime xvii. “Vedea che donne la covrian d'un Velo.”

A. B.

[The silver dove is sleeping in her nest]

The silver dove is sleeping in her nest,
As sleeps the flow'ret in its little cell;
And she is now, a breathless thing, at rest,
And earth has listened to her last farewell.

'Tis said, that silence is not dumb,—'tis said,
That marble lips are eloquent, and speak
With voice resistless,—Language of the Dead,—
And I, the Living,—I alone am weak.

Yet striving in my weakness,—though too late,
Her gentle virtues to the world I gave;
The last to linger by life's closing gate;—
Then placed this wreath of cypress on her grave.

A. B. THE FAREWELL.

She was to me a consecrated thing,
Sever'd from all that grows upon the heart
Of ordinary life, and set apart,
As is the Star, that in the Western sky
Amid sidereal splendours of its own,
A beauteous palace builds, remote from all,
And unapproachable, yet wanting not
Companionship, so sent, divine.—I thought
A Spirit still was with her, as she went,
Slept by her side, knelt by her at her prayer,
Keeping her sacred from the common breath
Of earth; as one that from its native clime
Had stray'd into another element
Of grosser being. So this thing of love,

This child in her mysterious birth, was sent
Among us. Where the gentle creature mov'd,
Love followed, mixt with wonder; and fear came,
That one so young, so fair, should disappear,
Like to a beauteous shadow gliding by,
Then lost in darkness.—So she pass'd away
By that sweet Spirit led—that with her went,
The dear companion of her life,—I saw
Ever with smile ineffable it look'd
Upon the child, nor briefest absence bore;
For, as the last pale leaf of autumn fades,
Prophetic of its end, so these two friends
Must journey now together,—never more
Within these transitory scenes be found
At early morn, or eve, or when reclined
Beneath the noonday shadows—so they stood
List'ning the voice divine, that to them came,
Bringing its high commission from the skies;
And they lay down together, side by side,
In robes of saintly lustre—slept, not died.
The young, the pure, the good:—they cannot die.
They pass from earth.—Life meets them in the sky.

St. Matthew xviii. 10. See the note of Grotius. Petavius de Angelis and St. Jerome, quoted by Whitby, held, that each of these little ones had an angel delegated to them from their birth. See Wetstein's notes on the passage in his edition. Those who may not agree in the truth of the doctrine, will acknowledge the tender piety of the feeling conveyed in it.

A. B.

['Tis in her constancy, and truth]

'Tis in her constancy, and truth,
And faith,—her beauty lives, they say;
With gentle fears, that round her play,
The chaste companions of her youth.

The dew that gleams in Pity's eye,
Loves fondly on her grave to dwell;
And those sweet tears that o'er it fell,
Were tears, alas! that will not dry.

“Fear and niceness,
The handmaids of all women.”

Cymbeline.