THE BURIAL.
“Stranger! thou pitiest me, she said,With lips that faintly smiled,As here I watch beside my dead,My fair and precious child.But know the time-worn heart may beBy pangs in this world riven,Keener than theirs, who yield, like me,An angel thus to Heaven.”Mrs. Hemans.
“Stranger! thou pitiest me, she said,With lips that faintly smiled,As here I watch beside my dead,My fair and precious child.But know the time-worn heart may beBy pangs in this world riven,Keener than theirs, who yield, like me,An angel thus to Heaven.”Mrs. Hemans.
“Stranger! thou pitiest me, she said,With lips that faintly smiled,As here I watch beside my dead,My fair and precious child.
“Stranger! thou pitiest me, she said,
With lips that faintly smiled,
As here I watch beside my dead,
My fair and precious child.
But know the time-worn heart may beBy pangs in this world riven,Keener than theirs, who yield, like me,An angel thus to Heaven.”
But know the time-worn heart may be
By pangs in this world riven,
Keener than theirs, who yield, like me,
An angel thus to Heaven.”
Mrs. Hemans.
There was silence deep and deathlike, as the silence of the tomb,Save when a startling sigh was heard, in that funereal room,Where lay a lovely cherub boy, smiling as if in sleep;It was the smile that comes with death, and whispers, “Do not weep,When those you love are snatch’d away from earth and all its cares;”O, is it strange a smile should be the last farewell to tears?He was a cherish’d only son, that fair and noble boy,His father and his mother saw in him their pride and joy;And he was bright and beautiful, ev’n to a stranger’s eye,For those who saw him at his play, could never pass him by,But often have they stopp’d awhile, to kiss his forehead fair,And part upon his open brow his clustering auburn hair.And when upraised his beauteous eye, with a confiding gaze,I’ve thought it was as cherubs look, that sweet angelic face;So innocent, so passing fair, so full of love and bliss;It brings a thought of Heaven to earth, sweet childhood’s happiness!O, types of Heaven they oft may see, whose thoughts to Heaven ascend,When things all lovely to behold their daily steps attend.Why lies that babe so silent there, in monumental rest,Why moves he not from hour to hour, nor heaves his gentle breast?Why does the mother place her hand upon his marble cheek,Then move her bloodless, quiv’ring lips, though none can hear her speak?Why meets he not her ardent gaze with smiles of infant bliss?And why, O, why returns he not that long impassion’d kiss!Why sleeps the tender infantthere, and not upon his bed?Why does the mother sever, too, those ringlets from his head?Why does she slowly curl them thus, around her fingers fair,And on them gaze so mournfully—those locks of auburn hair?Why does she press them to her lips, and press them to her breast?Why does her heart seem like to break, with feelings unexpress’d?Why wanders she from room to room, with face so deadly pale?And why so languid is her step, as though her strength would fail?And yet, why sits upon her brow such resolution high?What means that strange impressive look, seen in her moisten’d eye?Why come the strangers there to gaze, who, weeping, turn awayWhene’er the mother stoops to kiss that lovely sleeping clay?Why does the dog lie prostrate there, with such a mournful eye?Why does the mother stoop to him, whene’er she passes by?Why does he instant raise his head, with slow and solemn grace?Why does the mother place her cheek against his hairy face?Why does he give that piteous whine, so full of grief and pain,And when the mother turns away, lie prostrate there again?Why do the neighbors standing round, such pitying looks exchange,And, when they see the mother smile, why say, “’Tis passing strange?”And why do tears come gushing forth from many a friendly eye,Whene’er they hear her softly say, “My blessed angel boy?”Why do they gaze upon her thus, with troubled looks of dread,As though they fearedanotherstorm would bark upon her head?What means that group of busy ones, on some sad work intent?Why does the mother near them stand, with eyes upon them bent?Why do they all keep silence there, as though they feared t’ intrude?Why does the mother’s look express such heartfelt gratitude?Who are those lovely silent ones—that group of ladies fair?Why do they ply the needle thus—what are they doing there?O, list to me, and I will tell—that beauteous boy is dead;The father, in another room,lies on his dying bed;And she who glides from place to place, and wears so sad a smile—That wife and mother—who can tell what thoughts her bosom fill?For many sad mysterious things ye’ve asked the reason why;O, does not this explain full well each mournful mystery?Beside her husband’s dying bed the mourning mother stands,And on his cheek, and on his brow, she lays her trembling hands,And, bending low her fragile form, she whispers in his ear,“Our darling boy has gone to Heaven, youknowhe has, my dear!”He gazes on his loved one long, and says, with plaintive tone,“O, yes, our boyhasgone to Heaven, and I shall follow soon.”What makes the mother tremble thus, and close each tearful eye,And murmur forth, with quiv’ring lip, “O, no, you will not die—You will not leave me here alone—God will not take awayThe noblest boy that ever lived, andyoumy earthly stay.”Fair mourner! in a few short hours thy hopes must all depart;’Tis pity that all hope must die within that trusting heart.Trust on—trust on—a little while, nor yield thee to despair;The blow that soon shall fall on thee, God give thee strength to bear!Ah, little know the thoughtless world, what woman can endureFor those she loves, when she believes their happiness secure;In utter self-forgetfulness, while all her heartstrings bleed,O, shecanyield them up to Heaven, and joy that they are freed!’Tis even so—she proved it well, that mother and that wife,When she was willing to resign those dearer far than life;The time came on—it linger’d not, when that warm loving heart,From one to which it firmly grew, was rudely torn apart;And yet, forgetful of her pain, while every fibre bled,She joy’d to think her dearest love to heavenly bliss had fled!And I have told how she could smile, as o’er her boy she bent;O, it was when, with faith’s glad eye, her glance to Heaven she sent;Yes—though the lovely infant form was stretch’d upon its bier,’Twas sweet to think—’twas sweet to know, the spirit was not there!Clad in a shining robe of light, his face illumed with joy;She saw the glorious spirit form of her sweet angel boy!Enfolded in the Savior’s arms, one moment he would be,While every smiling feature glow’d, all bright with ecstacy;And when she seem’d to catch his eye, he’d spread his golden wings,And stretch his little arms to her, whose bright imaginingsWere bearing her away from earth, to Heaven and to her child;When such a vision met her gaze, what wonder that she smiled?And with such high and holy thoughts, firm fastened to the skies,What wonder that such looks were seen in those impressive eyes?It was not strange, though strange it seem’d to those who ne’er had knownThe pure ecstatic “joy of grief,” the trust in Heaven alone.O, if there be a holy joy, unmingled, it is this—For those we best have loved on earth,the certainty of bliss!Weep not, ye strangers! weep not thus, for her who is bereaved—Yesurelyweep not for the soul so late to Heaven received!I know ’tis sad, ’tis very sad, to see that fair young flower—That rosebud bright and beautiful, all withered in an hour;But could ye look away from earth, and from the yawning tomb,In deathless, bright, unearthly tints, ye’d see that flow’ret bloom.And now, behold! those silent ones—that group of ladies fair!They’ve finished each her mournful task; what were they doing there?Why did they ply the needle thus, on white unsullied lawn,And now, because their task is done, why have they thus withdrawn?The lovely group of busy ones, who fear’d to speak aloud,Were making for that sleeping dust, its burial dress—its shroud!And now the mourner stands alone, beside her sleeping boy,’Tis but a moment—other cares her heart and hands employ,They’ve clothed him in his burial dress, whose heart beats not beneath,But still he wears a smile, and looks all beautiful in death;O, that corruption’s tainting touch should mar so fair a form!O, that the young and beautiful should feed the slimy worm!Fair mourner! whither goest thou? why dost thou turn away?How canst thou for a moment leave that lovely sleeping clay?I need not ask—full well I know that thou wouldst linger long,And near thy sweet unconscious child these sacred hours prolong;But now thou go’st with eager step, thy husband’s heart to cheer,And see! thou leav’st a loving friend, to watch beside the bier.The playmate of thy gentle boy—the dog he loved so well—He lieth there beside that corse, a faithful sentinel!O, were that noble beast endow’d with man’s intelligence,And could he speak, he’d tell his grief, with true heart-eloquence;E’en now, methinks, he seems to speak, as mournfully he lies,And looks into his mistress’ face with those confiding eyes.A crowd is slowly gathering within that silent room;With eyes intent upon the ground, and sober steps they come;Their errand is a holy one, to follow to the graveThe beautiful young creature, whom nor tears nor prayers could save;To place the precious dust within its narrow cheerless home,And with true hearted sympathy, to weep beside the tomb.The mother leaves her station near the chosen of her heart;How strange that in her speaking eye, no tear is seen to start!She whispers to the friend she leaves, “O, watch my husband well,And if he ask you where I am, ah me! you need not tell—But say that I’ll return again, on eager wings of love—That I have sought aresting place, within our fav’rite grove.A resting place—a resting place! little did I dreamWhen last we wandered there, ’twould be a resting place for him—For thee, my boy! my peerless boy! who gambol’d at my side;O, would to God! my son! my son! that I for thee had died!Hush—hush—my fond maternal heart! and let thy treasure go;If thou couldst do it by a word,wouldstthou recall him? No!”The strangers all have look’d their last upon the clay-cold form,So late instinct with life and health, with pulses beating warm;’Tis covered now from every eye—alas! ’tis darkly hid,It lies upon its narrow bed, beneath the coffin lid.’Twill see no more the sun’s fair light, when night’s dark hours have fled—It sleeps a long and dreamless sleep, upon that narrow bed.The childless mourner takes her place amid that tearful throng,She is the only tearless one, that silent crowd among;The minister of God has come, he bows his reverend head,And from the holy book he reads, how “blessed are the dead;”See joy upon the mother’s face! see rapture in her eye!Pale Death! O, where is now thy sting? where, Grave! thy victory?And from the volume in his hands, O, list! and hear him tell,How once a mother and a wife did answer, “It is well.”Yes—when the holy man of God asked, “Is it well with thee,And with thy husband and thy child?” thus sweetly answered she.Now see upon that mourner’s face, what radiant smiles do steal!She moves her lips—what does she say? She whispers, “Itiswell.”Blessed religion of the skies! O blessed hope of Heaven!How canst thou heal the broken heart, by sore afflictions riven!And thou, celestial Comforter! thou Spirit of the Lord!Forever be thy holy name exalted and adored!For thou canst charm away the grief of those who are distress’d,And by thine own sweet promises bring rapture to the breast.There is a strain of melody heard in that western wild,They sing above the coffin’d dust of that beloved child;What voice, with clear yet plaintive tone, now swells upon the ear,So full of high wrought feeling that all others stop to hear?O, what must be the joyful hope that thus to Heaven clings!—It is that childless mourner, who thus clearly, sweetly sings:—“On Jordan’s stormy banks I stand,And cast a wishful eyeTo Canaan’s fair and happy land,Where my possessions lie.O, the transporting rapt’rous sceneThat rises to my sight!Sweet fields array’d in living green,And rivers of delight.O’er all those wide extended plainsShines one eternal day;There God the Son forever reigns,And scatters night away.No chilling winds nor pois’nous breathCan reach that blissful shore,Sickness and sorrow, pain and death,Are felt and fear’d no more.When shall I reach that happy place,And be forever blest?When shall I see my Father’s face,And in his bosom rest?Fill’d with delight, my raptured soulWould here no longer stay;Though Jordan’s waves should o’er me roll,Fearless I’d launch away.”With clasped hands and raised eyes, these words the mother sang;In silv’ry tones on every ear the mournful music rang;’Twas mournful as the wind-swept harp, that answers to the breezeWhene’er it sighs complainingly, among the forest trees—Or voice of lonely nightingale, at evening in the wood,Warbling her soft and mournful plaint, in melancholy mood.Along the solitary road, with slow and solemn tread,Now move the mourners who attend the burial of the dead;The stranger and the forest-born, the parent and the child,Go with him to his early grave in yonder western wild;They weep for her who weepeth not, for, ah! too well they knowThat soon, in perfect loneliness, awidow’stears must flow!Behold them “on their winding way!” how mournfully they move!And now they’ve reach’d that resting place, in yonder shady grove;Not weary of this tiresome world, was he who there shall rest,A flower just newly blown he was, pluck’d from his mother’s breast;In yonder sweet sequestered spot, where verdant branches wave,The funeral train have gather’d now, beside an open grave.Hark! hear ye not that solemn voice? It is the voice of prayer;And reverently each listener his bowed head doth bare;The youthful and the aged man, the man in nature’s prime,All bow before the King of Kings. Who would not bow to Him?The mother leans in silence there, upon a stranger’s arm;Her thoughts are with her angel boy, now safe from every harm.No more she sees the funeral train—the gentle and the brave;Nor sees the little coffin laid beside the open grave;Her pale, pale face is upward turned, her eyes are fixed on high,A glory shineth on her face, a rapture in her eye!Why stands she gazing up to Heaven? what sees the mother there?She sees her shining cherub boy, in answer to her prayer!The prayer is ended—all is still—and now the man of God(Before the ready spade has touch’d the cold expectant sod,)Returns the mourners’ thanks to all who’ve lent their kindly aidTo those on whom the hand of God its crushing weight has laid;In watching by the suff’rer’s couch, through many a weary night,And now in burying their dead—their darling, out of sight.“Ashes to ashes—dust to dust”—with mournful hollow soundThe clods of earth are falling on that coffin under ground;Nay, shudder not, nor turn away, with sudden heart-despair!Mother! ’tis but his lifeless dust, his spirit is not there.Yes, smile again that same sad smile, and raise thy languid eyes,Again—O, mourner! dost thou see thy darling in the skies?In silence and in thoughtfulness, away the mourners move;Deserted is that peaceful spot, within a shady grove.Deserted? No! for all day long, and through the silent night,A friend is watching by the boy, now buried out of sight;Where gently to the western winds the verdant branches wave,There prostrate lies a faithful dog, beside a new made grave!
There was silence deep and deathlike, as the silence of the tomb,Save when a startling sigh was heard, in that funereal room,Where lay a lovely cherub boy, smiling as if in sleep;It was the smile that comes with death, and whispers, “Do not weep,When those you love are snatch’d away from earth and all its cares;”O, is it strange a smile should be the last farewell to tears?He was a cherish’d only son, that fair and noble boy,His father and his mother saw in him their pride and joy;And he was bright and beautiful, ev’n to a stranger’s eye,For those who saw him at his play, could never pass him by,But often have they stopp’d awhile, to kiss his forehead fair,And part upon his open brow his clustering auburn hair.And when upraised his beauteous eye, with a confiding gaze,I’ve thought it was as cherubs look, that sweet angelic face;So innocent, so passing fair, so full of love and bliss;It brings a thought of Heaven to earth, sweet childhood’s happiness!O, types of Heaven they oft may see, whose thoughts to Heaven ascend,When things all lovely to behold their daily steps attend.Why lies that babe so silent there, in monumental rest,Why moves he not from hour to hour, nor heaves his gentle breast?Why does the mother place her hand upon his marble cheek,Then move her bloodless, quiv’ring lips, though none can hear her speak?Why meets he not her ardent gaze with smiles of infant bliss?And why, O, why returns he not that long impassion’d kiss!Why sleeps the tender infantthere, and not upon his bed?Why does the mother sever, too, those ringlets from his head?Why does she slowly curl them thus, around her fingers fair,And on them gaze so mournfully—those locks of auburn hair?Why does she press them to her lips, and press them to her breast?Why does her heart seem like to break, with feelings unexpress’d?Why wanders she from room to room, with face so deadly pale?And why so languid is her step, as though her strength would fail?And yet, why sits upon her brow such resolution high?What means that strange impressive look, seen in her moisten’d eye?Why come the strangers there to gaze, who, weeping, turn awayWhene’er the mother stoops to kiss that lovely sleeping clay?Why does the dog lie prostrate there, with such a mournful eye?Why does the mother stoop to him, whene’er she passes by?Why does he instant raise his head, with slow and solemn grace?Why does the mother place her cheek against his hairy face?Why does he give that piteous whine, so full of grief and pain,And when the mother turns away, lie prostrate there again?Why do the neighbors standing round, such pitying looks exchange,And, when they see the mother smile, why say, “’Tis passing strange?”And why do tears come gushing forth from many a friendly eye,Whene’er they hear her softly say, “My blessed angel boy?”Why do they gaze upon her thus, with troubled looks of dread,As though they fearedanotherstorm would bark upon her head?What means that group of busy ones, on some sad work intent?Why does the mother near them stand, with eyes upon them bent?Why do they all keep silence there, as though they feared t’ intrude?Why does the mother’s look express such heartfelt gratitude?Who are those lovely silent ones—that group of ladies fair?Why do they ply the needle thus—what are they doing there?O, list to me, and I will tell—that beauteous boy is dead;The father, in another room,lies on his dying bed;And she who glides from place to place, and wears so sad a smile—That wife and mother—who can tell what thoughts her bosom fill?For many sad mysterious things ye’ve asked the reason why;O, does not this explain full well each mournful mystery?Beside her husband’s dying bed the mourning mother stands,And on his cheek, and on his brow, she lays her trembling hands,And, bending low her fragile form, she whispers in his ear,“Our darling boy has gone to Heaven, youknowhe has, my dear!”He gazes on his loved one long, and says, with plaintive tone,“O, yes, our boyhasgone to Heaven, and I shall follow soon.”What makes the mother tremble thus, and close each tearful eye,And murmur forth, with quiv’ring lip, “O, no, you will not die—You will not leave me here alone—God will not take awayThe noblest boy that ever lived, andyoumy earthly stay.”Fair mourner! in a few short hours thy hopes must all depart;’Tis pity that all hope must die within that trusting heart.Trust on—trust on—a little while, nor yield thee to despair;The blow that soon shall fall on thee, God give thee strength to bear!Ah, little know the thoughtless world, what woman can endureFor those she loves, when she believes their happiness secure;In utter self-forgetfulness, while all her heartstrings bleed,O, shecanyield them up to Heaven, and joy that they are freed!’Tis even so—she proved it well, that mother and that wife,When she was willing to resign those dearer far than life;The time came on—it linger’d not, when that warm loving heart,From one to which it firmly grew, was rudely torn apart;And yet, forgetful of her pain, while every fibre bled,She joy’d to think her dearest love to heavenly bliss had fled!And I have told how she could smile, as o’er her boy she bent;O, it was when, with faith’s glad eye, her glance to Heaven she sent;Yes—though the lovely infant form was stretch’d upon its bier,’Twas sweet to think—’twas sweet to know, the spirit was not there!Clad in a shining robe of light, his face illumed with joy;She saw the glorious spirit form of her sweet angel boy!Enfolded in the Savior’s arms, one moment he would be,While every smiling feature glow’d, all bright with ecstacy;And when she seem’d to catch his eye, he’d spread his golden wings,And stretch his little arms to her, whose bright imaginingsWere bearing her away from earth, to Heaven and to her child;When such a vision met her gaze, what wonder that she smiled?And with such high and holy thoughts, firm fastened to the skies,What wonder that such looks were seen in those impressive eyes?It was not strange, though strange it seem’d to those who ne’er had knownThe pure ecstatic “joy of grief,” the trust in Heaven alone.O, if there be a holy joy, unmingled, it is this—For those we best have loved on earth,the certainty of bliss!Weep not, ye strangers! weep not thus, for her who is bereaved—Yesurelyweep not for the soul so late to Heaven received!I know ’tis sad, ’tis very sad, to see that fair young flower—That rosebud bright and beautiful, all withered in an hour;But could ye look away from earth, and from the yawning tomb,In deathless, bright, unearthly tints, ye’d see that flow’ret bloom.And now, behold! those silent ones—that group of ladies fair!They’ve finished each her mournful task; what were they doing there?Why did they ply the needle thus, on white unsullied lawn,And now, because their task is done, why have they thus withdrawn?The lovely group of busy ones, who fear’d to speak aloud,Were making for that sleeping dust, its burial dress—its shroud!And now the mourner stands alone, beside her sleeping boy,’Tis but a moment—other cares her heart and hands employ,They’ve clothed him in his burial dress, whose heart beats not beneath,But still he wears a smile, and looks all beautiful in death;O, that corruption’s tainting touch should mar so fair a form!O, that the young and beautiful should feed the slimy worm!Fair mourner! whither goest thou? why dost thou turn away?How canst thou for a moment leave that lovely sleeping clay?I need not ask—full well I know that thou wouldst linger long,And near thy sweet unconscious child these sacred hours prolong;But now thou go’st with eager step, thy husband’s heart to cheer,And see! thou leav’st a loving friend, to watch beside the bier.The playmate of thy gentle boy—the dog he loved so well—He lieth there beside that corse, a faithful sentinel!O, were that noble beast endow’d with man’s intelligence,And could he speak, he’d tell his grief, with true heart-eloquence;E’en now, methinks, he seems to speak, as mournfully he lies,And looks into his mistress’ face with those confiding eyes.A crowd is slowly gathering within that silent room;With eyes intent upon the ground, and sober steps they come;Their errand is a holy one, to follow to the graveThe beautiful young creature, whom nor tears nor prayers could save;To place the precious dust within its narrow cheerless home,And with true hearted sympathy, to weep beside the tomb.The mother leaves her station near the chosen of her heart;How strange that in her speaking eye, no tear is seen to start!She whispers to the friend she leaves, “O, watch my husband well,And if he ask you where I am, ah me! you need not tell—But say that I’ll return again, on eager wings of love—That I have sought aresting place, within our fav’rite grove.A resting place—a resting place! little did I dreamWhen last we wandered there, ’twould be a resting place for him—For thee, my boy! my peerless boy! who gambol’d at my side;O, would to God! my son! my son! that I for thee had died!Hush—hush—my fond maternal heart! and let thy treasure go;If thou couldst do it by a word,wouldstthou recall him? No!”The strangers all have look’d their last upon the clay-cold form,So late instinct with life and health, with pulses beating warm;’Tis covered now from every eye—alas! ’tis darkly hid,It lies upon its narrow bed, beneath the coffin lid.’Twill see no more the sun’s fair light, when night’s dark hours have fled—It sleeps a long and dreamless sleep, upon that narrow bed.The childless mourner takes her place amid that tearful throng,She is the only tearless one, that silent crowd among;The minister of God has come, he bows his reverend head,And from the holy book he reads, how “blessed are the dead;”See joy upon the mother’s face! see rapture in her eye!Pale Death! O, where is now thy sting? where, Grave! thy victory?And from the volume in his hands, O, list! and hear him tell,How once a mother and a wife did answer, “It is well.”Yes—when the holy man of God asked, “Is it well with thee,And with thy husband and thy child?” thus sweetly answered she.Now see upon that mourner’s face, what radiant smiles do steal!She moves her lips—what does she say? She whispers, “Itiswell.”Blessed religion of the skies! O blessed hope of Heaven!How canst thou heal the broken heart, by sore afflictions riven!And thou, celestial Comforter! thou Spirit of the Lord!Forever be thy holy name exalted and adored!For thou canst charm away the grief of those who are distress’d,And by thine own sweet promises bring rapture to the breast.There is a strain of melody heard in that western wild,They sing above the coffin’d dust of that beloved child;What voice, with clear yet plaintive tone, now swells upon the ear,So full of high wrought feeling that all others stop to hear?O, what must be the joyful hope that thus to Heaven clings!—It is that childless mourner, who thus clearly, sweetly sings:—“On Jordan’s stormy banks I stand,And cast a wishful eyeTo Canaan’s fair and happy land,Where my possessions lie.O, the transporting rapt’rous sceneThat rises to my sight!Sweet fields array’d in living green,And rivers of delight.O’er all those wide extended plainsShines one eternal day;There God the Son forever reigns,And scatters night away.No chilling winds nor pois’nous breathCan reach that blissful shore,Sickness and sorrow, pain and death,Are felt and fear’d no more.When shall I reach that happy place,And be forever blest?When shall I see my Father’s face,And in his bosom rest?Fill’d with delight, my raptured soulWould here no longer stay;Though Jordan’s waves should o’er me roll,Fearless I’d launch away.”With clasped hands and raised eyes, these words the mother sang;In silv’ry tones on every ear the mournful music rang;’Twas mournful as the wind-swept harp, that answers to the breezeWhene’er it sighs complainingly, among the forest trees—Or voice of lonely nightingale, at evening in the wood,Warbling her soft and mournful plaint, in melancholy mood.Along the solitary road, with slow and solemn tread,Now move the mourners who attend the burial of the dead;The stranger and the forest-born, the parent and the child,Go with him to his early grave in yonder western wild;They weep for her who weepeth not, for, ah! too well they knowThat soon, in perfect loneliness, awidow’stears must flow!Behold them “on their winding way!” how mournfully they move!And now they’ve reach’d that resting place, in yonder shady grove;Not weary of this tiresome world, was he who there shall rest,A flower just newly blown he was, pluck’d from his mother’s breast;In yonder sweet sequestered spot, where verdant branches wave,The funeral train have gather’d now, beside an open grave.Hark! hear ye not that solemn voice? It is the voice of prayer;And reverently each listener his bowed head doth bare;The youthful and the aged man, the man in nature’s prime,All bow before the King of Kings. Who would not bow to Him?The mother leans in silence there, upon a stranger’s arm;Her thoughts are with her angel boy, now safe from every harm.No more she sees the funeral train—the gentle and the brave;Nor sees the little coffin laid beside the open grave;Her pale, pale face is upward turned, her eyes are fixed on high,A glory shineth on her face, a rapture in her eye!Why stands she gazing up to Heaven? what sees the mother there?She sees her shining cherub boy, in answer to her prayer!The prayer is ended—all is still—and now the man of God(Before the ready spade has touch’d the cold expectant sod,)Returns the mourners’ thanks to all who’ve lent their kindly aidTo those on whom the hand of God its crushing weight has laid;In watching by the suff’rer’s couch, through many a weary night,And now in burying their dead—their darling, out of sight.“Ashes to ashes—dust to dust”—with mournful hollow soundThe clods of earth are falling on that coffin under ground;Nay, shudder not, nor turn away, with sudden heart-despair!Mother! ’tis but his lifeless dust, his spirit is not there.Yes, smile again that same sad smile, and raise thy languid eyes,Again—O, mourner! dost thou see thy darling in the skies?In silence and in thoughtfulness, away the mourners move;Deserted is that peaceful spot, within a shady grove.Deserted? No! for all day long, and through the silent night,A friend is watching by the boy, now buried out of sight;Where gently to the western winds the verdant branches wave,There prostrate lies a faithful dog, beside a new made grave!
There was silence deep and deathlike, as the silence of the tomb,Save when a startling sigh was heard, in that funereal room,Where lay a lovely cherub boy, smiling as if in sleep;It was the smile that comes with death, and whispers, “Do not weep,When those you love are snatch’d away from earth and all its cares;”O, is it strange a smile should be the last farewell to tears?
There was silence deep and deathlike, as the silence of the tomb,
Save when a startling sigh was heard, in that funereal room,
Where lay a lovely cherub boy, smiling as if in sleep;
It was the smile that comes with death, and whispers, “Do not weep,
When those you love are snatch’d away from earth and all its cares;”
O, is it strange a smile should be the last farewell to tears?
He was a cherish’d only son, that fair and noble boy,His father and his mother saw in him their pride and joy;And he was bright and beautiful, ev’n to a stranger’s eye,For those who saw him at his play, could never pass him by,But often have they stopp’d awhile, to kiss his forehead fair,And part upon his open brow his clustering auburn hair.
He was a cherish’d only son, that fair and noble boy,
His father and his mother saw in him their pride and joy;
And he was bright and beautiful, ev’n to a stranger’s eye,
For those who saw him at his play, could never pass him by,
But often have they stopp’d awhile, to kiss his forehead fair,
And part upon his open brow his clustering auburn hair.
And when upraised his beauteous eye, with a confiding gaze,I’ve thought it was as cherubs look, that sweet angelic face;So innocent, so passing fair, so full of love and bliss;It brings a thought of Heaven to earth, sweet childhood’s happiness!O, types of Heaven they oft may see, whose thoughts to Heaven ascend,When things all lovely to behold their daily steps attend.
And when upraised his beauteous eye, with a confiding gaze,
I’ve thought it was as cherubs look, that sweet angelic face;
So innocent, so passing fair, so full of love and bliss;
It brings a thought of Heaven to earth, sweet childhood’s happiness!
O, types of Heaven they oft may see, whose thoughts to Heaven ascend,
When things all lovely to behold their daily steps attend.
Why lies that babe so silent there, in monumental rest,Why moves he not from hour to hour, nor heaves his gentle breast?Why does the mother place her hand upon his marble cheek,Then move her bloodless, quiv’ring lips, though none can hear her speak?Why meets he not her ardent gaze with smiles of infant bliss?And why, O, why returns he not that long impassion’d kiss!
Why lies that babe so silent there, in monumental rest,
Why moves he not from hour to hour, nor heaves his gentle breast?
Why does the mother place her hand upon his marble cheek,
Then move her bloodless, quiv’ring lips, though none can hear her speak?
Why meets he not her ardent gaze with smiles of infant bliss?
And why, O, why returns he not that long impassion’d kiss!
Why sleeps the tender infantthere, and not upon his bed?Why does the mother sever, too, those ringlets from his head?Why does she slowly curl them thus, around her fingers fair,And on them gaze so mournfully—those locks of auburn hair?Why does she press them to her lips, and press them to her breast?Why does her heart seem like to break, with feelings unexpress’d?
Why sleeps the tender infantthere, and not upon his bed?
Why does the mother sever, too, those ringlets from his head?
Why does she slowly curl them thus, around her fingers fair,
And on them gaze so mournfully—those locks of auburn hair?
Why does she press them to her lips, and press them to her breast?
Why does her heart seem like to break, with feelings unexpress’d?
Why wanders she from room to room, with face so deadly pale?And why so languid is her step, as though her strength would fail?And yet, why sits upon her brow such resolution high?What means that strange impressive look, seen in her moisten’d eye?Why come the strangers there to gaze, who, weeping, turn awayWhene’er the mother stoops to kiss that lovely sleeping clay?
Why wanders she from room to room, with face so deadly pale?
And why so languid is her step, as though her strength would fail?
And yet, why sits upon her brow such resolution high?
What means that strange impressive look, seen in her moisten’d eye?
Why come the strangers there to gaze, who, weeping, turn away
Whene’er the mother stoops to kiss that lovely sleeping clay?
Why does the dog lie prostrate there, with such a mournful eye?Why does the mother stoop to him, whene’er she passes by?Why does he instant raise his head, with slow and solemn grace?Why does the mother place her cheek against his hairy face?Why does he give that piteous whine, so full of grief and pain,And when the mother turns away, lie prostrate there again?
Why does the dog lie prostrate there, with such a mournful eye?
Why does the mother stoop to him, whene’er she passes by?
Why does he instant raise his head, with slow and solemn grace?
Why does the mother place her cheek against his hairy face?
Why does he give that piteous whine, so full of grief and pain,
And when the mother turns away, lie prostrate there again?
Why do the neighbors standing round, such pitying looks exchange,And, when they see the mother smile, why say, “’Tis passing strange?”And why do tears come gushing forth from many a friendly eye,Whene’er they hear her softly say, “My blessed angel boy?”Why do they gaze upon her thus, with troubled looks of dread,As though they fearedanotherstorm would bark upon her head?
Why do the neighbors standing round, such pitying looks exchange,
And, when they see the mother smile, why say, “’Tis passing strange?”
And why do tears come gushing forth from many a friendly eye,
Whene’er they hear her softly say, “My blessed angel boy?”
Why do they gaze upon her thus, with troubled looks of dread,
As though they fearedanotherstorm would bark upon her head?
What means that group of busy ones, on some sad work intent?Why does the mother near them stand, with eyes upon them bent?Why do they all keep silence there, as though they feared t’ intrude?Why does the mother’s look express such heartfelt gratitude?Who are those lovely silent ones—that group of ladies fair?Why do they ply the needle thus—what are they doing there?
What means that group of busy ones, on some sad work intent?
Why does the mother near them stand, with eyes upon them bent?
Why do they all keep silence there, as though they feared t’ intrude?
Why does the mother’s look express such heartfelt gratitude?
Who are those lovely silent ones—that group of ladies fair?
Why do they ply the needle thus—what are they doing there?
O, list to me, and I will tell—that beauteous boy is dead;The father, in another room,lies on his dying bed;And she who glides from place to place, and wears so sad a smile—That wife and mother—who can tell what thoughts her bosom fill?For many sad mysterious things ye’ve asked the reason why;O, does not this explain full well each mournful mystery?
O, list to me, and I will tell—that beauteous boy is dead;
The father, in another room,lies on his dying bed;
And she who glides from place to place, and wears so sad a smile—
That wife and mother—who can tell what thoughts her bosom fill?
For many sad mysterious things ye’ve asked the reason why;
O, does not this explain full well each mournful mystery?
Beside her husband’s dying bed the mourning mother stands,And on his cheek, and on his brow, she lays her trembling hands,And, bending low her fragile form, she whispers in his ear,“Our darling boy has gone to Heaven, youknowhe has, my dear!”He gazes on his loved one long, and says, with plaintive tone,“O, yes, our boyhasgone to Heaven, and I shall follow soon.”
Beside her husband’s dying bed the mourning mother stands,
And on his cheek, and on his brow, she lays her trembling hands,
And, bending low her fragile form, she whispers in his ear,
“Our darling boy has gone to Heaven, youknowhe has, my dear!”
He gazes on his loved one long, and says, with plaintive tone,
“O, yes, our boyhasgone to Heaven, and I shall follow soon.”
What makes the mother tremble thus, and close each tearful eye,And murmur forth, with quiv’ring lip, “O, no, you will not die—You will not leave me here alone—God will not take awayThe noblest boy that ever lived, andyoumy earthly stay.”Fair mourner! in a few short hours thy hopes must all depart;’Tis pity that all hope must die within that trusting heart.
What makes the mother tremble thus, and close each tearful eye,
And murmur forth, with quiv’ring lip, “O, no, you will not die—
You will not leave me here alone—God will not take away
The noblest boy that ever lived, andyoumy earthly stay.”
Fair mourner! in a few short hours thy hopes must all depart;
’Tis pity that all hope must die within that trusting heart.
Trust on—trust on—a little while, nor yield thee to despair;The blow that soon shall fall on thee, God give thee strength to bear!Ah, little know the thoughtless world, what woman can endureFor those she loves, when she believes their happiness secure;In utter self-forgetfulness, while all her heartstrings bleed,O, shecanyield them up to Heaven, and joy that they are freed!
Trust on—trust on—a little while, nor yield thee to despair;
The blow that soon shall fall on thee, God give thee strength to bear!
Ah, little know the thoughtless world, what woman can endure
For those she loves, when she believes their happiness secure;
In utter self-forgetfulness, while all her heartstrings bleed,
O, shecanyield them up to Heaven, and joy that they are freed!
’Tis even so—she proved it well, that mother and that wife,When she was willing to resign those dearer far than life;The time came on—it linger’d not, when that warm loving heart,From one to which it firmly grew, was rudely torn apart;And yet, forgetful of her pain, while every fibre bled,She joy’d to think her dearest love to heavenly bliss had fled!
’Tis even so—she proved it well, that mother and that wife,
When she was willing to resign those dearer far than life;
The time came on—it linger’d not, when that warm loving heart,
From one to which it firmly grew, was rudely torn apart;
And yet, forgetful of her pain, while every fibre bled,
She joy’d to think her dearest love to heavenly bliss had fled!
And I have told how she could smile, as o’er her boy she bent;O, it was when, with faith’s glad eye, her glance to Heaven she sent;Yes—though the lovely infant form was stretch’d upon its bier,’Twas sweet to think—’twas sweet to know, the spirit was not there!Clad in a shining robe of light, his face illumed with joy;She saw the glorious spirit form of her sweet angel boy!
And I have told how she could smile, as o’er her boy she bent;
O, it was when, with faith’s glad eye, her glance to Heaven she sent;
Yes—though the lovely infant form was stretch’d upon its bier,
’Twas sweet to think—’twas sweet to know, the spirit was not there!
Clad in a shining robe of light, his face illumed with joy;
She saw the glorious spirit form of her sweet angel boy!
Enfolded in the Savior’s arms, one moment he would be,While every smiling feature glow’d, all bright with ecstacy;And when she seem’d to catch his eye, he’d spread his golden wings,And stretch his little arms to her, whose bright imaginingsWere bearing her away from earth, to Heaven and to her child;When such a vision met her gaze, what wonder that she smiled?
Enfolded in the Savior’s arms, one moment he would be,
While every smiling feature glow’d, all bright with ecstacy;
And when she seem’d to catch his eye, he’d spread his golden wings,
And stretch his little arms to her, whose bright imaginings
Were bearing her away from earth, to Heaven and to her child;
When such a vision met her gaze, what wonder that she smiled?
And with such high and holy thoughts, firm fastened to the skies,What wonder that such looks were seen in those impressive eyes?It was not strange, though strange it seem’d to those who ne’er had knownThe pure ecstatic “joy of grief,” the trust in Heaven alone.O, if there be a holy joy, unmingled, it is this—For those we best have loved on earth,the certainty of bliss!
And with such high and holy thoughts, firm fastened to the skies,
What wonder that such looks were seen in those impressive eyes?
It was not strange, though strange it seem’d to those who ne’er had known
The pure ecstatic “joy of grief,” the trust in Heaven alone.
O, if there be a holy joy, unmingled, it is this—
For those we best have loved on earth,the certainty of bliss!
Weep not, ye strangers! weep not thus, for her who is bereaved—Yesurelyweep not for the soul so late to Heaven received!I know ’tis sad, ’tis very sad, to see that fair young flower—That rosebud bright and beautiful, all withered in an hour;But could ye look away from earth, and from the yawning tomb,In deathless, bright, unearthly tints, ye’d see that flow’ret bloom.
Weep not, ye strangers! weep not thus, for her who is bereaved—
Yesurelyweep not for the soul so late to Heaven received!
I know ’tis sad, ’tis very sad, to see that fair young flower—
That rosebud bright and beautiful, all withered in an hour;
But could ye look away from earth, and from the yawning tomb,
In deathless, bright, unearthly tints, ye’d see that flow’ret bloom.
And now, behold! those silent ones—that group of ladies fair!They’ve finished each her mournful task; what were they doing there?Why did they ply the needle thus, on white unsullied lawn,And now, because their task is done, why have they thus withdrawn?The lovely group of busy ones, who fear’d to speak aloud,Were making for that sleeping dust, its burial dress—its shroud!
And now, behold! those silent ones—that group of ladies fair!
They’ve finished each her mournful task; what were they doing there?
Why did they ply the needle thus, on white unsullied lawn,
And now, because their task is done, why have they thus withdrawn?
The lovely group of busy ones, who fear’d to speak aloud,
Were making for that sleeping dust, its burial dress—its shroud!
And now the mourner stands alone, beside her sleeping boy,’Tis but a moment—other cares her heart and hands employ,They’ve clothed him in his burial dress, whose heart beats not beneath,But still he wears a smile, and looks all beautiful in death;O, that corruption’s tainting touch should mar so fair a form!O, that the young and beautiful should feed the slimy worm!
And now the mourner stands alone, beside her sleeping boy,
’Tis but a moment—other cares her heart and hands employ,
They’ve clothed him in his burial dress, whose heart beats not beneath,
But still he wears a smile, and looks all beautiful in death;
O, that corruption’s tainting touch should mar so fair a form!
O, that the young and beautiful should feed the slimy worm!
Fair mourner! whither goest thou? why dost thou turn away?How canst thou for a moment leave that lovely sleeping clay?I need not ask—full well I know that thou wouldst linger long,And near thy sweet unconscious child these sacred hours prolong;But now thou go’st with eager step, thy husband’s heart to cheer,And see! thou leav’st a loving friend, to watch beside the bier.
Fair mourner! whither goest thou? why dost thou turn away?
How canst thou for a moment leave that lovely sleeping clay?
I need not ask—full well I know that thou wouldst linger long,
And near thy sweet unconscious child these sacred hours prolong;
But now thou go’st with eager step, thy husband’s heart to cheer,
And see! thou leav’st a loving friend, to watch beside the bier.
The playmate of thy gentle boy—the dog he loved so well—He lieth there beside that corse, a faithful sentinel!O, were that noble beast endow’d with man’s intelligence,And could he speak, he’d tell his grief, with true heart-eloquence;E’en now, methinks, he seems to speak, as mournfully he lies,And looks into his mistress’ face with those confiding eyes.
The playmate of thy gentle boy—the dog he loved so well—
He lieth there beside that corse, a faithful sentinel!
O, were that noble beast endow’d with man’s intelligence,
And could he speak, he’d tell his grief, with true heart-eloquence;
E’en now, methinks, he seems to speak, as mournfully he lies,
And looks into his mistress’ face with those confiding eyes.
A crowd is slowly gathering within that silent room;With eyes intent upon the ground, and sober steps they come;Their errand is a holy one, to follow to the graveThe beautiful young creature, whom nor tears nor prayers could save;To place the precious dust within its narrow cheerless home,And with true hearted sympathy, to weep beside the tomb.
A crowd is slowly gathering within that silent room;
With eyes intent upon the ground, and sober steps they come;
Their errand is a holy one, to follow to the grave
The beautiful young creature, whom nor tears nor prayers could save;
To place the precious dust within its narrow cheerless home,
And with true hearted sympathy, to weep beside the tomb.
The mother leaves her station near the chosen of her heart;How strange that in her speaking eye, no tear is seen to start!She whispers to the friend she leaves, “O, watch my husband well,And if he ask you where I am, ah me! you need not tell—But say that I’ll return again, on eager wings of love—That I have sought aresting place, within our fav’rite grove.
The mother leaves her station near the chosen of her heart;
How strange that in her speaking eye, no tear is seen to start!
She whispers to the friend she leaves, “O, watch my husband well,
And if he ask you where I am, ah me! you need not tell—
But say that I’ll return again, on eager wings of love—
That I have sought aresting place, within our fav’rite grove.
A resting place—a resting place! little did I dreamWhen last we wandered there, ’twould be a resting place for him—For thee, my boy! my peerless boy! who gambol’d at my side;O, would to God! my son! my son! that I for thee had died!Hush—hush—my fond maternal heart! and let thy treasure go;If thou couldst do it by a word,wouldstthou recall him? No!”
A resting place—a resting place! little did I dream
When last we wandered there, ’twould be a resting place for him—
For thee, my boy! my peerless boy! who gambol’d at my side;
O, would to God! my son! my son! that I for thee had died!
Hush—hush—my fond maternal heart! and let thy treasure go;
If thou couldst do it by a word,wouldstthou recall him? No!”
The strangers all have look’d their last upon the clay-cold form,So late instinct with life and health, with pulses beating warm;’Tis covered now from every eye—alas! ’tis darkly hid,It lies upon its narrow bed, beneath the coffin lid.’Twill see no more the sun’s fair light, when night’s dark hours have fled—It sleeps a long and dreamless sleep, upon that narrow bed.
The strangers all have look’d their last upon the clay-cold form,
So late instinct with life and health, with pulses beating warm;
’Tis covered now from every eye—alas! ’tis darkly hid,
It lies upon its narrow bed, beneath the coffin lid.
’Twill see no more the sun’s fair light, when night’s dark hours have fled—
It sleeps a long and dreamless sleep, upon that narrow bed.
The childless mourner takes her place amid that tearful throng,She is the only tearless one, that silent crowd among;The minister of God has come, he bows his reverend head,And from the holy book he reads, how “blessed are the dead;”See joy upon the mother’s face! see rapture in her eye!Pale Death! O, where is now thy sting? where, Grave! thy victory?
The childless mourner takes her place amid that tearful throng,
She is the only tearless one, that silent crowd among;
The minister of God has come, he bows his reverend head,
And from the holy book he reads, how “blessed are the dead;”
See joy upon the mother’s face! see rapture in her eye!
Pale Death! O, where is now thy sting? where, Grave! thy victory?
And from the volume in his hands, O, list! and hear him tell,How once a mother and a wife did answer, “It is well.”Yes—when the holy man of God asked, “Is it well with thee,And with thy husband and thy child?” thus sweetly answered she.Now see upon that mourner’s face, what radiant smiles do steal!She moves her lips—what does she say? She whispers, “Itiswell.”
And from the volume in his hands, O, list! and hear him tell,
How once a mother and a wife did answer, “It is well.”
Yes—when the holy man of God asked, “Is it well with thee,
And with thy husband and thy child?” thus sweetly answered she.
Now see upon that mourner’s face, what radiant smiles do steal!
She moves her lips—what does she say? She whispers, “Itiswell.”
Blessed religion of the skies! O blessed hope of Heaven!How canst thou heal the broken heart, by sore afflictions riven!And thou, celestial Comforter! thou Spirit of the Lord!Forever be thy holy name exalted and adored!For thou canst charm away the grief of those who are distress’d,And by thine own sweet promises bring rapture to the breast.
Blessed religion of the skies! O blessed hope of Heaven!
How canst thou heal the broken heart, by sore afflictions riven!
And thou, celestial Comforter! thou Spirit of the Lord!
Forever be thy holy name exalted and adored!
For thou canst charm away the grief of those who are distress’d,
And by thine own sweet promises bring rapture to the breast.
There is a strain of melody heard in that western wild,They sing above the coffin’d dust of that beloved child;What voice, with clear yet plaintive tone, now swells upon the ear,So full of high wrought feeling that all others stop to hear?O, what must be the joyful hope that thus to Heaven clings!—It is that childless mourner, who thus clearly, sweetly sings:—
There is a strain of melody heard in that western wild,
They sing above the coffin’d dust of that beloved child;
What voice, with clear yet plaintive tone, now swells upon the ear,
So full of high wrought feeling that all others stop to hear?
O, what must be the joyful hope that thus to Heaven clings!
—It is that childless mourner, who thus clearly, sweetly sings:—
“On Jordan’s stormy banks I stand,And cast a wishful eyeTo Canaan’s fair and happy land,Where my possessions lie.O, the transporting rapt’rous sceneThat rises to my sight!Sweet fields array’d in living green,And rivers of delight.
“On Jordan’s stormy banks I stand,
And cast a wishful eye
To Canaan’s fair and happy land,
Where my possessions lie.
O, the transporting rapt’rous scene
That rises to my sight!
Sweet fields array’d in living green,
And rivers of delight.
O’er all those wide extended plainsShines one eternal day;There God the Son forever reigns,And scatters night away.No chilling winds nor pois’nous breathCan reach that blissful shore,Sickness and sorrow, pain and death,Are felt and fear’d no more.
O’er all those wide extended plains
Shines one eternal day;
There God the Son forever reigns,
And scatters night away.
No chilling winds nor pois’nous breath
Can reach that blissful shore,
Sickness and sorrow, pain and death,
Are felt and fear’d no more.
When shall I reach that happy place,And be forever blest?When shall I see my Father’s face,And in his bosom rest?Fill’d with delight, my raptured soulWould here no longer stay;Though Jordan’s waves should o’er me roll,Fearless I’d launch away.”
When shall I reach that happy place,
And be forever blest?
When shall I see my Father’s face,
And in his bosom rest?
Fill’d with delight, my raptured soul
Would here no longer stay;
Though Jordan’s waves should o’er me roll,
Fearless I’d launch away.”
With clasped hands and raised eyes, these words the mother sang;In silv’ry tones on every ear the mournful music rang;’Twas mournful as the wind-swept harp, that answers to the breezeWhene’er it sighs complainingly, among the forest trees—Or voice of lonely nightingale, at evening in the wood,Warbling her soft and mournful plaint, in melancholy mood.
With clasped hands and raised eyes, these words the mother sang;
In silv’ry tones on every ear the mournful music rang;
’Twas mournful as the wind-swept harp, that answers to the breeze
Whene’er it sighs complainingly, among the forest trees—
Or voice of lonely nightingale, at evening in the wood,
Warbling her soft and mournful plaint, in melancholy mood.
Along the solitary road, with slow and solemn tread,Now move the mourners who attend the burial of the dead;The stranger and the forest-born, the parent and the child,Go with him to his early grave in yonder western wild;They weep for her who weepeth not, for, ah! too well they knowThat soon, in perfect loneliness, awidow’stears must flow!
Along the solitary road, with slow and solemn tread,
Now move the mourners who attend the burial of the dead;
The stranger and the forest-born, the parent and the child,
Go with him to his early grave in yonder western wild;
They weep for her who weepeth not, for, ah! too well they know
That soon, in perfect loneliness, awidow’stears must flow!
Behold them “on their winding way!” how mournfully they move!And now they’ve reach’d that resting place, in yonder shady grove;Not weary of this tiresome world, was he who there shall rest,A flower just newly blown he was, pluck’d from his mother’s breast;In yonder sweet sequestered spot, where verdant branches wave,The funeral train have gather’d now, beside an open grave.
Behold them “on their winding way!” how mournfully they move!
And now they’ve reach’d that resting place, in yonder shady grove;
Not weary of this tiresome world, was he who there shall rest,
A flower just newly blown he was, pluck’d from his mother’s breast;
In yonder sweet sequestered spot, where verdant branches wave,
The funeral train have gather’d now, beside an open grave.
Hark! hear ye not that solemn voice? It is the voice of prayer;And reverently each listener his bowed head doth bare;The youthful and the aged man, the man in nature’s prime,All bow before the King of Kings. Who would not bow to Him?The mother leans in silence there, upon a stranger’s arm;Her thoughts are with her angel boy, now safe from every harm.
Hark! hear ye not that solemn voice? It is the voice of prayer;
And reverently each listener his bowed head doth bare;
The youthful and the aged man, the man in nature’s prime,
All bow before the King of Kings. Who would not bow to Him?
The mother leans in silence there, upon a stranger’s arm;
Her thoughts are with her angel boy, now safe from every harm.
No more she sees the funeral train—the gentle and the brave;Nor sees the little coffin laid beside the open grave;Her pale, pale face is upward turned, her eyes are fixed on high,A glory shineth on her face, a rapture in her eye!Why stands she gazing up to Heaven? what sees the mother there?She sees her shining cherub boy, in answer to her prayer!
No more she sees the funeral train—the gentle and the brave;
Nor sees the little coffin laid beside the open grave;
Her pale, pale face is upward turned, her eyes are fixed on high,
A glory shineth on her face, a rapture in her eye!
Why stands she gazing up to Heaven? what sees the mother there?
She sees her shining cherub boy, in answer to her prayer!
The prayer is ended—all is still—and now the man of God(Before the ready spade has touch’d the cold expectant sod,)Returns the mourners’ thanks to all who’ve lent their kindly aidTo those on whom the hand of God its crushing weight has laid;In watching by the suff’rer’s couch, through many a weary night,And now in burying their dead—their darling, out of sight.
The prayer is ended—all is still—and now the man of God
(Before the ready spade has touch’d the cold expectant sod,)
Returns the mourners’ thanks to all who’ve lent their kindly aid
To those on whom the hand of God its crushing weight has laid;
In watching by the suff’rer’s couch, through many a weary night,
And now in burying their dead—their darling, out of sight.
“Ashes to ashes—dust to dust”—with mournful hollow soundThe clods of earth are falling on that coffin under ground;Nay, shudder not, nor turn away, with sudden heart-despair!Mother! ’tis but his lifeless dust, his spirit is not there.Yes, smile again that same sad smile, and raise thy languid eyes,Again—O, mourner! dost thou see thy darling in the skies?
“Ashes to ashes—dust to dust”—with mournful hollow sound
The clods of earth are falling on that coffin under ground;
Nay, shudder not, nor turn away, with sudden heart-despair!
Mother! ’tis but his lifeless dust, his spirit is not there.
Yes, smile again that same sad smile, and raise thy languid eyes,
Again—O, mourner! dost thou see thy darling in the skies?
In silence and in thoughtfulness, away the mourners move;Deserted is that peaceful spot, within a shady grove.Deserted? No! for all day long, and through the silent night,A friend is watching by the boy, now buried out of sight;Where gently to the western winds the verdant branches wave,There prostrate lies a faithful dog, beside a new made grave!
In silence and in thoughtfulness, away the mourners move;
Deserted is that peaceful spot, within a shady grove.
Deserted? No! for all day long, and through the silent night,
A friend is watching by the boy, now buried out of sight;
Where gently to the western winds the verdant branches wave,
There prostrate lies a faithful dog, beside a new made grave!
Charleston,June, 1841.