Poems

WRITTEN ON THE DEATHS OF THREE LOVELY CHILDREN WHO WERE TAKEN FROM THEIR PARENTS WITHIN A MONTH OF ONE ANOTHER.

HENRY,

AGED EIGHT YEARS.

Yellow leaves, how fast they flutter--woodland hollows thickly strewing, Where the wan October sunbeams scantly in the mid-day win, While the dim gray clouds are drifting, and in saddened hues imbuing All without and all within!

All within! but winds of autumn, little Henry, round their dwelling Did not load your father's spirit with those deep and burdened sighs;-- Only echoed thoughts of sadness, in your mother's bosom swelling, Fast as tears that dim her eyes.

Life is fraught with many changes, checked with sorrow and mutation, But no grief it ever lightened such a truth before to know:-- I behold them--father, mother--as they seem to contemplation, Only three short weeks ago!

Saddened for the morrow's parting--up the stairs at midnight stealing-- As with cautious foot we glided past the children's open door,-- "Come in here," they said, the lamplight dimpled forms at last revealing, "Kiss them in their sleep once more."

You were sleeping, little Henry, with your eyelids scarcely closing, Two sweet faces near together, with their rounded arms entwined:-- And the rose-bud lips were moving, as if stirred in their reposing By the movements of the mind!

And your mother smoothed the pillow, and her sleeping treasures numbered, Whispering fondly--"He is dreaming"--as you turned upon your bed-- And your father stooped to kiss you, happy dreamer, as you slumbered, With his hand upon your head!

Did he know the true deep meaning of his blessing? No! he never Heard afar the summons uttered--"Come up hither"--Never knew How the awful Angel faces kept his sleeping boy for ever, And for ever in their view.

Awful Faces, unimpassioned, silent Presences were by us, Shrouding wings--majestic beings--hidden by this earthly veil-- Such as we have called on, saying, "Praise the Lord, O Ananias, Azarias and Misael!"

But we saw not, and who knoweth, what the missioned Spirits taught him, To that one small bed drawn nearer, when we left him to their will? While he slumbered, who can answer for what dreams they may have brought him, When at midnight all was still?

Father! Mother! must you leave him on his bed, but not to slumber? Are the small hands meekly folded on his breast, but not to pray? When you count your children over, must you tell a different number, Since that happier yesterday?

Father! Mother! weep if need be, since this is a "time" for weeping, Comfort comes not for the calling, grief is never argued down-- Coldly sounds the admonition, "Why lament? in better keeping Rests the child than in your own."

"Truth indeed! but, oh! compassion! Have you sought to scan my sorrow?" (Mother, you shall meekly ponder, list'ning to that common tale) "Does your heart repeat its echo, or by fellow-feeling borrow Even a tone that might avail?

"Might avail to steal it from me, by its deep heart-warm affection? Might perceive by strength of loving how the fond words to combine? Surely no! I will be silent, in your soul is no reflection Of the care that burdens mine!"

When the winter twilight gathers, Father, and your thoughts shall wander, Sitting lonely you shall blend him with your listless reveries, Half forgetful what division holds the form whereon you ponder From its place upon your knees--

With a start of recollection, with a half-reproachful wonder, Of itself the heart shall question, "Art Thou then no longer here? Is it so, my little Henry? Are we set so far asunder Who were wont to be so near?"

While the fire-light dimly flickers, and the lengthened shades are meeting, To itself the heart shall answer, "He shall come to me no more: I shall never hear his footsteps nor the child's sweet voice entreating For admission at my door."

But upon your fair, fair forehead, no regrets nor griefs are dwelling, Neither sorrow nor disquiet do the peaceful features know; Nor that look, whose wistful beauty seemed their sad hearts to be telling, "Daylight breaketh, let me go!"

Daylight breaketh, little Henry; in its beams your soul awaketh-- What though night should close around us, dim and dreary to the view-- Though our souls should walk in darkness, far away that morning breaketh Into endless day for you!

SAMUEL,

AGED NINE YEARS.

They have left you, little Henry, but they have not left you lonely-- Brothers' hearts so knit together could not, might not separate dwell. Fain to seek you in the mansions far away--One lingered only To bid those behind farewell!

Gentle Boy!--His childlike nature in most guileless form was moulded, And it may be that his spirit woke in glory unaware, Since so calmly he resigned it, with his hands still meekly folded, Having said his evening prayer.

Or--if conscious of that summons--"Speak, O Lord, Thy servant heareth"-- As one said, whose name they gave him, might his willing answer be, "Here am I"--like him replying--"At Thy gates my soul appeareth, For behold Thou calledst me!"

A deep silence--utter silence, on his earthly home descendeth:-- Reading, playing, sleeping, waking--he is gone, and few remain! "O the loss!"--they utter, weeping--every voice its echo lendeth-- "O the loss!"--But, O the gain!

On that tranquil shore his spirit was vouchsafed an early landing, Lest the toils of crime should stain it, or the thrall of guilt control-- Lest that "wickedness should alter the yet simple understanding, Or deceit beguile his soul!"

"Lay not up on earth thy treasure"--they have read that sentence duly, Moth and rust shall fret thy riches--earthly good hath swift decay-- "Even so," each heart replieth--"As for me, my riches truly Make them wings and flee away!"

"O my riches!--O my children!--dearest part of life and being, Treasures looked to for the solace of this life's declining years,-- Were our voices cold to hearing--or our faces cold to seeing, That ye left us to our tears?"

"We inherit conscious silence, ceasing of some merry laughter, And the hush of two sweet voices--(healing sounds for spirits bruised!) Of the tread of joyous footsteps in the pathway following after, Of two names no longer used!"

Question for them, little Sister, in your sweet and childish fashion-- Search and seek them, Baby Brother, with your calm and asking eyes-- Dimpled lips that fail to utter fond appeal or sad compassion, Mild regret or dim surprise!

There are two tall trees above you, by the high east window growing, Underneath them, slumber sweetly, lapt in silence deep, serene; Save, when pealing in the distance, organ notes towards you flowing Echo--with a pause between!

And that pause?--a voice shall fill it--tones that blessed you daily, nightly, Well beloved, but not sufficing, Sleepers, to awake you now, Though so near he stand, that shadows from your trees may tremble lightly On his book and on his brow!

Sleep then ever! Neither singing of sweet birds shall break your slumber, Neither fall of dew, nor sunshine, dance of leaves, nor drift of snow, Charm those dropt lids more to open, nor the tranquil bosoms cumber With one care for things below!

It is something, the assurance, that you ne'er shall feel like sorrow, Weep no past and dread no future--know not sighing, feel not pain-- Nor a day that looketh forward to a mournfuller to-morrow-- "Clouds returning after rain!"

No, far off, the daylight breaketh, in its beams each soul awaketh: "What though clouds," they sigh, "be gathered dark and stormy to the view, Though the light our eyes forsaketh, fresh and sweet behold it breaketh Into endless day for you!"

KATIE, AGED FIVE YEARS.