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The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott

Edited by his Son Edwin Elliott ... A New and Revised Edition: Two Volumes

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WILLIAM.

Lift, lift me up! my broken heart
Must speak before I go:
O Mother! it is death to part
From you—I love you so!
“The doctor shunn'd my eyes, and brook'd
Few words from my despair;
But through and through his heart I look'd,
And saw my coffin there.
You did not tell me I should die,
You fear'd your child would grieve;
But I am dying! One is nigh
Whom kindness can't deceive.

92

“The dim light sickens round my bed,
Your looks seem sick with woe,
The air feels sick, as, o'er my head
Its pantings come and go.
“Oh, I am sick in every limb,
Sick, sick in every vein!
My eyes and brain with sickness swim,
My bones are sick with pain!
“What is this weary helplessness,
This breathless toil for breath?
This tossing aching weariness—
What is it?—It is Death!
“Mother, I feel as in a dream;
My dark'ning senses reel,
Like moonlight on a troubled stream:
This cannot last, I feel.
“Yet, it has lasted—Oh, how long
This sick dream seems to me!
My God! why is my weakness strong
To bear such agony?
“'Tis sad to quit a world so fair,
To warm young hearts like mine;
And, doom'd so early, hard to bear
This heavy hand of thine.

93

“I, like a youngling from the nest,
By rude hands torn away,
Would fain cling to my mother's breast—
But cannot, must not, stay.
“From her and hers, and our sweet home,
My soul seems forced afar,
O'er frozen seas of sable foam,
Through gloom without a star.
“I go where voice was never heard,
Where sunbeam ne'er was seen,
Where dust beholds nor flow'r nor bird,
As if life ne'er had been!
“I go where Thomas went before;
I hear him sob ‘Prepare!’
And I have borne what Thomas bore:
Who knows what he can bear?
“Farewell!—farewell! to meet again!
But, oh, why part to meet?
I know my mother's heart is fain
To share my winding-sheet!
“Can't you die with me, mother? Come
And clasp me!—not so fast!
How close and airless is the room!
O mother!”—It is past!

94

The breath is gone, the soul is flown,
The lips no longer move;
God o'er my child hath slowly thrown
His veil of dreadful love.
O thou changed dust! pale form that tak'st
All hope from fond complaint!
Thou sad mute eloquence, that mak'st
The listener's spirit faint.
And, oh, ye dreamy fears, that rest
On dark realities!
Why preach ye to the trembling breast,
Truths which are mysteries.
 

Opium-eater.