 | Stories that might be true |  |
LOVE IN DEATH.
[In the year 1821, a woman perished in a snow-storm while passing over the Green Mountains in Vermont; she had an infant with her, who was found alive and well in the morning, carefully wrapt in the mother's clothing.]
An affecting incident which might serve as a companion to this story, was noticed in a Donegal paper of the Winter of 1847–48. “A little girl of eleven years of age and her brother, about two years younger, were overtaken by a snow storm when crossing the Pettigo Mountains, towards the evening; they were found the next morning lying close together, both dead, the little boy with his sister's shawl round his neck, and her flannel petticoat wrapped about his feet, she having possibly sacrificed her own life in a vain attempt to sustain that of her brother.”
Through the wild storm, amid the drifting snows,
A voice of murmured soothing blent with prayer,
Solemn in trustful tenderness, arose.
A mother's spirit in its parting clung
Unto her child—a mother's soul was stirred
Through all its depths—a mother's fondness hung,
And trembled on each faint and faltering word
Of blessing and farewell; and, as the bird
Plucks the soft plumage from its downy breast
To shield its young, and cowers with quivering wing
More closely o'er them, to her side she prest
Her babe, and strove, with warmth and sheltering
To frame within her clasping arms a nest:
‘Sleep! oh, my baby, sleep! the night draws on.
Ere yet the morning dawns I shall be gone,
And thou no more will know such place of rest;
Colder and yet more cold,
Dark with the storm the wild winds round us sweep,
Yet still above thy slumber, as of old,
Thy mother watches. Sleep, thou dear one, sleep!
Closer and closer still
Nestle unto me, darling, safe from harm;
Cold, cold, is all without, and deathly chill,
Only the heart—thy mother's heart—is warm.
Yes, even there, my child! and, oh, how soon.
The snow drifts thickly round us—fold by fold
Around the sinking form, the weary feet
That may no longer bear us o'er the wild,
Silent and swift, a wreathèd winding-sheet
Is closely drawn: but not for thee, my child!
No, not for thee! my parting soul hath striven
With Him, the merciful—unto this hour,
Unto its love, its anguish, hath been given
A spirit of prevailing and of power;—
It is related of the Great Baber that when upon a certain time, Humaioon, his eldest son, fell dangerously ill, and all hope of his recovery was given up, it was remarked to him by one of his sages, that in such a case the Almighty had sometimes deigned to receive a man's most valuable possession as a ransom for the life of his friend. Baber thereupon exclaimed that next to the life of Humaioon, his own life was what he most valued, and that he would devote it as a sacrifice for his son. His counsellors entreated him to revoke the vow, and give the great diamond obtained at Agra, reported to be the most valuable in the world, but he persisted in declaring no jewel to be so dear as Life, and, walking three times round the body of the dying Prince, a ceremony solemnly observed in sacrifices and heave-offerings, retired, and prayed earnestly to God, and after some time was heard to say “I have borne it away, I have borne it away.” The Moslem Historians affirm that Humaioon immediately began to recover, and Baber proportionably to decline. Caldecott's Life of Baber.
Death folds me close as I fold thee to mine;
To sleep they woo me, soft and deep as thine:
A heavy mist steals on—I feel my breath,
Drawn slowly from me; yet my love shall keep
Its watch above thee still, and thou shalt sleep,
Sleep safely, sweetly, in the arms of Death,
And wake to Life once more! Kind eyes shall weep,
And kindly hearts be troubled, when they see
The sweet unconscious smiling of thy face;
For thou wilt smile, and bear no thought of me.
Too young art thou for Grief,
Too young for Love, my child, for Memory!
Yet not less fond the last, the lingering kiss,
Yet not less fervent from the heart the prayer;
Because I know thou wilt, darling, miss
Thy mother in her fondness, in her care!
Thy Father. Thou wilt grow up by his side,
And ever bring the thought of her that died
Lonely, but loving, blessing him and thee.
The flower—the flower may fall
When it hath shielded in its folded breast
The bud of promise, loveliest,
Most dear of all.
And he will not be lone
The silence of his soul with many a tone
That once was mine, and whisper to him still
Of things long past, and I shall look at him
Through thy sweet eyes—young, loving eyes, that shine
In light and tenderness when these are dim,
Shall answer his with smiles that once were mine.
Sleep, dearest! in the night
Of death thy mother's arms around thee twine
More closely, that her spirit in its flight,
May send a message of its love on thine.
And green leaves rustle light o'er hill and plain;
Through the sweet scent of hidden waters stirred,
And the clear shining after summer rain,
The blade will spring; then on strong wing the bird
Will rise to the blue heaven, ascending slow;
The fisher will go forth upon the lake,
The hunter to the forest with his bow;
But far beyond the flight
Of Indian arrow, far beyond the ken
Of mountain eagle in his soaring might,
I shall have passed, returning not again:
These ancient Hills shall wake
Of Spring, and from their lofty summits shake
The icy chains of stillness and of death;
But not till they shall hear
A sound, and move in trembling from their place,
Not till the mountains and the rocks in fear
Shall flee, and leave where they have been no trace,
May I arise. O Saviour! earth and Heaven
Shall pass, but Thou endurest. Unto Thee
I yield my spirit; Father, bless Thou me!
Bless with Thy love the child that Thou hast given!’
The deep night fell, the keen and hurrying blast
Sang her wild dirge; the straining clasp grew cold,
Yet pressed the little one with rigid hold
Still to her heart; when morning came the child
Woke peaceful in its Mother's arms and smiled.
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