MOTHER'S GRIEF.
“Weeping for her children because they are not.”—
Jer. xxxi. 15.
The placid azure of thy pensive eyes
Oh childless mother! like dejected skies,
With such dim tearfulness is overspread,
It softly tells thou dreamest of the dead.
Bereaved thou art of that unfathom'd bliss,
A first-born infant; and a pang like this
Home to the centre hath thy spirit stirr'd,
Too deep for sighs, too sacred for a word.
Cold the wan beauty of thy sunken cheek;
And tones of pathos, when I hear thee speak,
Ring like a knell which haunts sad Memory's ear,
And melts warm feeling into woman's tear.
Alone I view thee o'er the Bible bend,
Till solitude becomes thy sainted friend;
While, rapt in stillness, oft the dreaming soul
Wings its lone flight to where no earth-clouds roll.
But wilt thou, mother, in this trance of gloom
Hover and dream around thine infant's tomb?
Dark Fancy! dars't thou lift the coffin-lid,
And view in anguish what the grave hath hid?
Those dawning gleams of consciousness and grace,
The chisell'd beauty, and the cherub-face,
How oft doth speculation these recall,
And tell thee thy sweet babe possess'd them all!
And when some cry of infancy is heard,
Like sleeping water by wild music stirr'd,
Thy heart-strings vibrate to each plaintive tone
As if that weeper were indeed thine own.
But, lady, there is balm and blessing left,
And healing words for hearts like thine bereft;
No childless orphan can the Church become,
Though Christ hath vanished to His viewless home!
Yet shall the Comforter on thee descend,
And heaven-breathed solace with thy spirit blend;
The Lord surrounds thee, when thou seest Him not,
And God must change, ere grief can be forgot.
Be Grace thy refuge: calmer thoughts will rise
And rays from heaven illume thine inward eyes;
Till in their brightness loss becomes a gain,
While God is thank'd for this mysterious pain.
And now, bethink thee, to thy babe in heaven
How much of glory hath Redemption given!
Worn by no race, at once it reach'd the goal,
Sinless on earth, and now—a perfect Soul.
Think, what a dignity to thee belongs
Thus to have deepen'd the angelic songs,
Thus to enrich with thy departed Gem
The lustre of Emmanuel's diadem!
And feel'st thou not, when God and glory seem
To awe thy Spirit with a solemn dream,
An Infant makes the skies familiar be,
And helps to humanise the heavens for thee?
Nor let harsh murmurs o'er thy doom arise
As though God wrong'd the Saint His wisdom tries;
Sorrow befits a world where Jesu bled,
And dust was borrow'd to receive Him dead.
In Christ, bereaved one! for profoundest grief
Dwells the pure source of all divine relief;
To minds which echo thee, most dear thou art,
But oh! far dearer to thy Saviour's heart.
That living Flow'ret which thy God hath given
His love transplanted to a bower in heaven;
There, shall each grace to perfect beauty rise,
And bud with glory when it breathes the skies.
