The Ruler's Faith

DEATH cometh to the chamber of the sick: The ruler's daughter, like the peasant's child, Turns pale as marble. Hark! that hollow moan, Which none may soothe, and then the last faint breath Subsiding with a shudder. Deep the wail That speaks an idol fallen from the shrine Of a fond parent's heart. A withered flower Is there, oh mother, where thy proudest hope Solaced itself with garlands, and beheld New buddings every morn. Father, 'tis o'er! That voice is silent which had been thy harp, Quickening thy footsteps nightly toward thy home, Mingling, perchance, an echo all too deep Even with thy temple worship, Should deal with God alone. What stranger-step Breaketh the trance of grief! Whose radiant brow In meekness and in majesty doth bend Beside the bed of death? "She doth but sleep; The damsel is not dead." A smothered hiss, Contemptuous, rises from that wondering band, Who beat the breast, and raise the license wail Of Judah's mourning. Look upon the dead! Heaves not the winding-sheet? Those trembling lids, What peers beneath their fringes, like the tint Of dewy violet? The blanched lips dispart, And what a quivering long-drawn sigh restores Their rose-leaf beauty. Lo! that clay-cold hand Doth clasp the Master's, and, with sudden spring, That shrouded sleeper, like a timid fawn, Hides in her mother's bosom. Faith's strong root Was in the parent's spirit, and its fruit How beautiful! Oh, mother! who doth gaze Upon thy daughter, in that deeper sleep, Which threats the soul's salvation, breathe her name To thy Redeemer's ear, both when she smiles In all her glowing beauty on the morn, Or when at night her clustering tresses sweep Her downy pillow, in the trance of dreams, Or when at pleasure's beckoning she goes forth, Or to the meshes of an early love Yields her young heart, be eloquent for her, Take no denial, till the gracious hand, Which raised the ruler's dead, give life to her, That better life, whose power surmounts the tomb.