[From Mona's Isle, 1844]

THE BEREFT MOTHER*

IN vain the blooming flowers spring
To variegate the vernal year,
In vain the feather’d warblers sing
My drooping spirit now to cheer—
For all my earthly joys are fled—
My babe, my tender babe, is dead.

Those bright blue eyes, whose glist’ning ray
Have ofttimes soothed my cares to rest ——
That smile, which did thy joy convey
When sweetly play’dst thou on my breast—
I still upon my sleepless bed
Behold thee, babe, though thou art dead!

My tear-fraught fount still, still will flow
Till weariness my eyelids close,
And even then my heartfelt woe
Disturbs my feverish, transient doze—
Again my copious tears I shed
For thee, my tender babe, that ‘s dead.

The world ‘s to me a wilderness,
And I a lonely pilgrim there,
Its joys I wish not to possess,
Nor of its fleeting bliss to share;
My mind towards the tomb is led
To mourn my infant’s fate that ‘s dead.

All earthly ties I would resign,
And lay me down, my child, with thee,
Should it but please the will divine ~
That thou my solace still might be—
Death’s gloomy vale I’d cease to dread,
To be with thee, my babe, that ‘s dead,

When on dark Jordan’s banks I stand—
Waiting the summons to repair
To great Emanuel’s promis’d land—
Will thy sweet spirit meet me there?
Yes—in such hope death’s gloom I’ll tread
To join thee ‘mongst the happy dead!

* written on the death of the Author’s youngest child by accident in 1842.