 | Poems by the late John Bethune |  |
157
THE EARLY DEAD.
Sad is the task to moralize
The grave of early youth above,
But death will dim the brightest eyes,
And quench, alas! the warmest love:
Yet we would hope the shaft which flies,
Passing the vulture to the dove,
Sends but the holy to the skies,
Through scenes of happiness to move—
To 'scape the toils, and griefs, and cares
Of waning life and hoary hairs.
The grave of early youth above,
But death will dim the brightest eyes,
And quench, alas! the warmest love:
Yet we would hope the shaft which flies,
Passing the vulture to the dove,
Sends but the holy to the skies,
Through scenes of happiness to move—
To 'scape the toils, and griefs, and cares
Of waning life and hoary hairs.
But who can see the lovely form
Of blooming youth consign'd to death,
Nor grieve to think the slimy worm
Should banquet on so sweet a wreath!
It is as if the pride of Spring—
Her fairest flower—the beauteous rose,
Affection's holiest offering,
Were blighted ere its bud unclose—
Its fragrance, and its glorious dyes
For ever lost to mortal eyes.
Of blooming youth consign'd to death,
Nor grieve to think the slimy worm
Should banquet on so sweet a wreath!
It is as if the pride of Spring—
Her fairest flower—the beauteous rose,
Affection's holiest offering,
Were blighted ere its bud unclose—
Its fragrance, and its glorious dyes
For ever lost to mortal eyes.
Yes—all must grieve whose eyes may see
The early dead resign'd to earth;
All—all must grieve, but chiefly she
Who gave the human floweret birth;
Who nursed it on a mother's knee,
Who watch'd its first essays at mirth—
Dreaming the while it yet should be
A gem of more than common worth—
Who pillow'd on her nurturing breast
Its infant head in balmy rest.
The early dead resign'd to earth;
All—all must grieve, but chiefly she
Who gave the human floweret birth;
Who nursed it on a mother's knee,
Who watch'd its first essays at mirth—
158
A gem of more than common worth—
Who pillow'd on her nurturing breast
Its infant head in balmy rest.
Oh! who can tell a mother's bliss,
When gazing on an only child,
She feels its infantine caress,
Its lisping love, its gambols wild?
And who can picture her distress,
When on the same sweet placid face
She sees the terrible impress
Of death destroying every grace,
And stealing each enchanting charm
From the soft cheek and lip so warm?
When gazing on an only child,
She feels its infantine caress,
Its lisping love, its gambols wild?
And who can picture her distress,
When on the same sweet placid face
She sees the terrible impress
Of death destroying every grace,
And stealing each enchanting charm
From the soft cheek and lip so warm?
Alas! as o'er the dead she stands,
The big tears falling thick and fast,
With trembling knees and clasped hands,
Like bulrush quivering in the blast,
No more she meets the soft reply,
Once to her yearning heart so dear,
Of that bedimm'd and closed eye,
Whose ray was wont to be so clear—
Whose smiles around were sown so thick,
Whose glances once had been so quick.
The big tears falling thick and fast,
With trembling knees and clasped hands,
Like bulrush quivering in the blast,
No more she meets the soft reply,
Once to her yearning heart so dear,
Of that bedimm'd and closed eye,
Whose ray was wont to be so clear—
Whose smiles around were sown so thick,
Whose glances once had been so quick.
No more the golden beam of hope
Gilds the far future with its light;
No more through Time's dim telescope
She sees the glowing vision bright,
As erst, when down life's fairy stream
Fancy was wont to take its flight,
And oft again enjoy'd the dream,
With growing rapture and delight,
When her own child, so fair, so good,
Had grown to man or womanhood.
Gilds the far future with its light;
No more through Time's dim telescope
She sees the glowing vision bright,
159
Fancy was wont to take its flight,
And oft again enjoy'd the dream,
With growing rapture and delight,
When her own child, so fair, so good,
Had grown to man or womanhood.
Oh! what a chain of cherish'd joys
Is blown, like gossamer, away,
When death's unsparing hand destroys
The mother's promise-bud in May!
Yet we would hope the shaft which flies,
Passing the vulture to the dove,
Sends but the holy to the skies,
Through scenes of happiness to move—
To 'scape the toils, the griefs, the cares,
Of waning life and hoary hairs.
Is blown, like gossamer, away,
When death's unsparing hand destroys
The mother's promise-bud in May!
Yet we would hope the shaft which flies,
Passing the vulture to the dove,
Sends but the holy to the skies,
Through scenes of happiness to move—
To 'scape the toils, the griefs, the cares,
Of waning life and hoary hairs.
| Poems by the late John Bethune | |