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That voice so clear in grief or joy,
That eye that shone like morning's dew,
That cloudless glance serene and true,
The mother smiling through the boy,—

All these are gone, the nameless grace,
Quick questions on a thousand things,
The thoughts that rose on eagles' wings,
To meet the Father face to face.

That voice I ne'er shall hear again,
Nor feel soft grasp of youthful hand;
I wander on the lonely strand,
And dreary is the aching pain.

Heir of my sin, conceived in shame,
Thou gav'st him, Lord, a little while;
I joyed to watch his infant smile;
Thine all the love, mine all the blame.

“God-given;” so I named him then,
The child that taught me how to love,
And spoke of Him who reigns above,
Great Father of the sons of men.

Then first from out the mire and clay
Of sensuous will, defiling all,
I rose, and from the abysmal fall
Took one step on to perfect day.

And she, poor lost one, whom my heart
Loved madly in its strong desire,
Through travail-pangs, through cleansing fire,
Passed to a mother's holier part.

She left me, and I know not now
Where roam her feet on Afric's shore;
But this I know, that evermore
Through life's long years she keeps her vow.

None other wins her love; but still
She breathes my name in every prayer,
And through the calm of midnight air
Strange, wandering thoughts her memory fill;

Thoughts of the days, long years ago,
With love's first dawning bright and fair;
Thoughts of the parting, hard to bear,
Which bowed her to the dust in woe.

Sees she, perchance, when purple eve
Glows on yon green Atlantic slopes,
Dim visions wrought of shadowy hopes,
Where joys with terrors interweave?

Dreams she of him, her darling boy,
In dawn of manhood's golden prime,
Still measuring out the lingering time,
With all a mother's pride and joy?

Or floats there now, with whispering breath,
The word that chills her blood with fear,
“Weep, mother, weep; he is not here;
The boy thou lovest sleeps in death?”

Or comes his form in radiant sheen,
As are the angels round the throne,
To bid her cease her wailing moan,
And join him in the life unseen?

So play I with my sorrow; so
I paint life's canvas o'er and o'er,
Like one who, on a lonely shore,
Sees cloudland pictures come and go.

It may be she her course hath run,
And found her rest, her refuge there,
Transfigured, purified, and fair,
The mother waiting for her son.

It may be now, in Eden's bowers,
Her hand in his is fondly prest,
And she, in blessing doubly blest,
Rejoices through the eternal hours.

II.

Oh, wondrous day of joy and fear!
Strange sight! the father and the son
Prepare the self-same race to run,
In snow-white garments drawing near

To where the clear baptismal stream
Shall wash the scars and stains of earth,
True token of a holier birth,
True answer to each yearning dream.

We knelt, one foul with years of sin,
A heart with guilt's dread burden faint,
And one as free from fleshly taint
As are the souls that Eden win.

They plunged him in the cleansing wave;
I watched the angel-face with fear:
“Ah! could the world that young heart sear,
Would God that stream could prove thy grave!

“Ah, what, if lusts of ripening youth,
Sin's poison running through the blood,
Should whelm thee in the foul, dark flood,
And part thee from the eternal Truth?

“What, if thy father's guilt in thee
Should mar the life which thus begins;
If bruised and crushed by countless sins,
In vain thou strugglest to be free?

“Not that, O Lord! My guilt I own,
Yet hear a father's eager prayer;
That woe were more than I could bear;
Oh, hear me from Thy mercy's throne!

“I fear lest thoughts that wander wide
Should mar the simple child-like trust;
Lest he, the sin-born heir of dust,
Should speak high words of soaring pride.

“The times are dark, and o'er us sweep
All forms of evil, dread and dim;
What if their false dreams over him
With cold, benumbing spell should creep?”

“What if the cross on stainless brow
That binds him still to warrior's zeal,
Faith's token true, life's solemn seal,
Should witness of a broken vow?”

So prayed I then, and dare I mourn
The prayer was offered not in vain;
Or thankless of the love complain,
Which meets my life at every turn.

Though dark are all the future years,
Though child and mother both are gone,
Through cloud and mist Thou leadest on;
Thy bow through all the storm appears.

No stain is on the blameless soul;
No discord mars the angel-voice;
Thou bidd'st him evermore rejoice;
Thy waves of rapture o'er him roll.

“God-given!” Yes, Thou tak'st Thine own,
The angel presence might not stay;
Through shadows of life's little day
It passes onward to the Throne.

III.

And thou, my mother, thou did'st claim
My child as thine; thy constant prayer,
That saved me from my blank despair,
Rose up for him on wings of flame.

Thou saint, whose vision upward soared
Through clouds, and skies, and æther far,
And still beyond or sun or star
Went on and on to seek thy Lord;

Thou did'st not scorn his prattling ways,
The lispings of his baby-speech,
“From such lips often,” thou would'st teach,
“Our God has perfected His praise.”

When we, with searchings vain perplext,
No pathway through the clouds could see,
One word from him, one smile from thee,
Could draw us from our wanderings vext.

So went his whole heart out to thee,
Thou mother of his new-born life;
Through childish moods, through youthful strife,
The skies of home were clear and free.

He loved to hear thy gentle voice
Tell tales of saints and martyrs old,
Christ's heroes, noble, pure, and bold,
The servants whom He bids rejoice.

He loved to swell the anthem clear,
At dawn of day or setting sun,
And when his childhood's task was done,
Lie down in slumber, free from fear.

Thy last hour came; thy glazèd eye
Through gathering mists saw Eden's bowers;
We counted all the lingering hours;
We felt the pulse; we watched the sigh.

Then came the end. Thy rest was calm;
The peace of God spread o'er thy brow;
The lips, pressed tight in pain but now,
Smiled sweetly, as though dews of balm

From Eden dropped on fevered frame,
And soothed the pang of struggling breath,
And through the brooding gloom of death
Clear gleams of Heaven's own brightness came.

But he, poor boy, to whom the sight
Of death was full of terrors strange,
Who dimly felt the awful change,
Nor rose above the child's affright,—

He cried a loud and bitter cry,
He wept above the lifeless form,
He sobbed, till sorrow's rushing storm
Had melted into calmer sigh.

And now they meet: the months have flown,
And o'er him spread the wings of God.
I bow before the chastening rod;
They kneel, adoring at the Throne.

They kneel and pray for me who live,
That I through all the strife with sin,
Though flesh and heart should fail, may win
And wear the crown Thy hands shall give.

I kneel and pray for those who rest,
The mother-saint, the angel-boy,
That they may pass through circling joy
To yon clear Vision of the Blest.

February 1865.