The poetical works of James Montgomery :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ah! who is she that sits and weeps,
And gazes on the narrow mound?
—In that fresh grave her true love sleeps,
Her heart lies with him in the ground:
She heeds not, while her babe, at play,
Plucks the frail flowers, that gaily bloom,
And casts them, ere they fade away,
In garlands, on its father's tomb;
—Unconscious where its father lies,
“Sweets to the sweet!” the prattler cries;
Ah! then she starts, looks up, her eyes o'erflow
With all a mother's love, and all a widow's woe.

Again she turns away her head,
Nor marks her infant's sportive air,
Its cherub-cheeks all rosy-red,
Its sweet blue eyes and ringlet-hair;
Silent she turns away her head,
Nor dare behold that smile-bright face,
Where live the features of the dead
In lineaments of fairy-grace:
For there at once, with transport wild,
She sees her husband and her child;
Ah! then her bosom burns, her eyes o'erflow
With all a mother's love, and all a widow's woe.

And still I find her sitting here,
Though dark October frowns on all;
And from the lime-trees rustling near,
The scatter'd leaves around her fall:
O then it charms her inmost soul,
It suits the sadness of her mind,
To watch the clouds of autumn roll,
And listen to the moaning wind;
In every shadow, every blast,
The spirits of enjoyments past,
She sees, she hears;—ah! then her eyes o'erflow,
Not with the mother's love, but with the widow's woe.

Yon peasant dreads a gathering storm,
Yet pauses as he hastens by,
Marks the pale ruin of her form,
The desolation of her eye;
Beholds her babe for shelter creep
Behind the grave-stone's dreary shade,
Where all its father's sorrows sleep,
And all its mother's hopes are laid:
Remembering then his own heart's joy,
A rosy wife, a blooming boy;
“Ah me!” he sighs, “when I am thus laid low,
Must my poor partner feel a widow'd mother's woe?”

He gently stretches out his arm,
And calls the babe in accents mild;

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The mother shrieks with strange alarm,
And snatches up her wondering child;
She thought that voice of tender tone,
Those accents soft, endearing, kind,
Came from beneath the hollow stone!
—He marks the wandering of her mind,
And, thankful for his happier lot,
Seeks the warm comforts of his cot;
He meets his wife;—ah! then his eyes o'erflow;
She feels a mother's love, nor dreads a widow's woe.

The storm retires;—and hark! the bird,
The lonely bird of autumn's reign,
From the church pinnacle is heard;
O what a clear and simple strain!
See the delighted mourner start,
While Robin red-breast's evening song
Pours all its sweetness through her heart.
And soothes it as it trills along:
Then gleams her eye, her fancy hears
The warbled music of the spheres;
She clasps her babe; she feels her bosom glow,
And in a mother's love forgets a widow's woe.

Go to thine home, forsaken fair!
Go to thy solitary home;
Thou lovely pilgrim, in despair,
To thy saint's shrine no longer roam;
He rests not here;—thy soul's delight
Attends where'er thy footsteps tread;
He watches in the depth of night,
A guardian-angel round thy bed;
And still a father, fondly kind,
Eyes the dear pledge he left behind:
So love may deem, and death may prove it so:
—In heaven at least there is no widow's woe;
Thither, in following him, with thy sweet infant go.

1809.