University of Virginia Library

ELEGY ON E. W. G. B.

ADDRESSED TO LADY B.

Another blow from Heaven! and wherefore thus
Shall human woe the act of Heaven discuss?
Shall roused affliction lift to God her eye,
And, knowing that He will'd it, question why?
Tried mother, bow thy head, and quell thy breast,
And check the unholy murmur ere exprest;
There was too much of good about thee still,
Baffling the jealous counterpoise of ill.
The draught of life was yet too strong for care,
Schemes were too quick, and hopes too busy there;
So grief again, as bubbles mantled up,
Was sent to tame the spirit of the cup:
Ask thine own heart—descend into that cell
Where lives the Priestess of Truth's Oracle,
Conscience, that breathes self-knowledge; She will say,
A mother's pride too deeply rooted lay
Within thy bosom; giving thoughts of earth
More room than aught terrestrial should be worth.
The love of thine own lovely race was such
As held thee fetter'd to the world too much:
So death was made thy visitor again,
To break another rivet of the chain,
That to thy mind's ambition might be given
A freer aspiration after Heaven.
Twice on the treasure of thy soul the hand
That lent it has enforced a stern demand.
Yet think, afflicted parent, for thy peace,
How may the seeming loss thy wealth increase.
If both so early in the grave they lie,
They both were innocent and fit to die.
Fairer than stars their spirits glow above;
And from their sphere depends a chain of love,
A chain of light to thee and thine descending,
Whereby riven hearts in mystic links are blending;
And the pure fires with which those spirits glow
Can thrill and lighten on the hearts below.
Direct thy gaze, thou cherisher of woes,
Where yon meek spire the hamlet's temple shows:
Is there no comfort in that place of prayer?
Alas, those tears deny all solace there.
Fuller and faster at the view they fall,
As though that sight were bitterer than all.
Well; who shall censure those o'erflowing eyes?
Religion's self will scarce refuse her sighs.
We all remember when each Sabbath morn
Saw thy young group that humble fane adorn;
With him, among the rest, of guileless brow—
Where is that dear and guileless Edward now?
When then ye glanced upon that vault beneath,
No echo warn'd you from that seat of death,
Whose shade at last must shroud you all, that doom
Adjudged him next into that cold dark room.
Death stole upon thee in a doubtful mask;
The black destroyer wanton'd with his task;
And mock'd with promise thy maternal hope;
And gave,—that's some relief—thy virtues scope.
We all remember—how can we forget—?
Those nightly vigils, that should soothe regret;
Those daily cares, and duties overpaid,
While the youth wasted to a bloodless shade.
We all remember, how, until the last,
Clung by his side this mother unsurpass'd;
Caught every tone, consulted every look,
Read every thought, and every wish o'ertook:
And, in despite of pain's exerted fangs,
Foil'd the tormentor of his keenest pangs.
Propp'd on his pillow as the victim lay,
While Life just pruned her wings to fleet away,
Cheer'd by her flutter, it was sweet, he said,
To lie thus careless on a tranquil bed;
And thence behold the trees in tender green,
And all the freshness of a vernal scene;
And feel the breeze that sometimes flew by stealth
To fan his cheeks and warble words of health.
Then came the hour!—the spirit waxing dim,
The helpless, hopeless feebleness of limb;
The wandering hands that quarrell'd with the air,
The glance that flicker'd round, but knew not where;
The language wilder than the trackless wind;
The last delirious energies of mind;
The cheeks like wither'd aspen leaves in hue,
And like those leaves all coldly shuddering too;
The quivering throat's half-choked and struggling cry;
And last, that fix'd expression of the eye!
Not yet; not yet; it cannot yet be o'er;
The soul still lights that face—O gaze no more,
Unhappy father! wherefore didst thou stay,
Watching the progress of thine own decay,
The dread mortality of thine own flesh,
That seems in those that yet remain so fresh?
Away! even she who watch'd as none have watch'd,
She, the poor mother with the heart unmatch'd,
Dragg'd by the arm of friendship from the room,
Has left him—to the agents of the tomb.
Take thy last look, and let it linger not;
And let us lead thee from the blighted spot.
In your sepulchral chamber, corse to corse,
Ye still shall meet, in spite of this divorce;
In the eternal kingdom, soul to soul,
Ye still may live, when planets cease to roll.