MY MOTHER’S DEATH.

It is a mournful song I sing— A loving mother dead. Who can so hard a tiding bring, Or deeper sorrow bid.

THE MESSAGE.

Soft as an angel’s breath, Swift as the wings of death, Through all the haunts of men, By lake and by river, Across forest and fen, Onward they sped, pauséd they never. By hamlet or hall, Mystic their pall, Hied as a spirit hidden from view, Faithless nor wavering, ever more true. Onward these words sped— “Your mother is dead.” Quick as a dart, Piercing the heart, Bore they upon me; Reeling the blow sent me. Oh! for the woe lent me, How could I stand.

THE AFFLICTOR.

Was it the hand of God lifted the rod? Oh how hard does it seem, wonderful God! Mighty and marvellous, we but behold In wonder and awe Thy mysteries told— The work of Thy hand Throughout all the land, Bearing on mankind— Man frail and mortal. Dark and ambiguous, mighty and grand, All Thy works are; Thee, whom all the angels adore, Falling in prostration before Thy radiant throne. In beauty of state The archangels wait, Seeking Thy glory, Great God, alone. How shall we bend, Seeking to lend Humble adorance, worship before Thee? How shall we yield us meekly submissive Unto Thy will? So prone is the heart oft to rebel, Murmuring still; From morning until night, And From darkness until light, It doth rebel. Send, O Lord! the spirit of meekness, And dispel All turbulent thought And vainglory sought. We are but nought In the presence of Thy greatness.

THE COMFORTER.

O Lord! reach us Thy hand, rich in comfort and love; Our grief soothe, and raise us above The tide of woe in which we move; In this loss console us; sweet may Our mourning be; oh! let us say, “God hath removéd her; He took her away.” And, Lord, teach us In all things Thy wisdom to see. Thou wouldst not have us alway be Wandering this vale of misery.

HER SUFFERING.

Great had her sorrow been, Anguish and woe, Pouring their full fury, Bearing her low. But, in agony sore, The affliction she bore Meek as a child. Though every breath was in agony seethed, Yet not a murmur her parchéd lips breathed, So passively mild. All the earth’s gladness Is but as sadness Unto her now. All its gay pleasures And its great treasures Are but as measures Empty and vain. Peace, peace in her soul Has fullest control.

HER DEATH.

Then the deliverer came, And, in the glorious name Of the great God, took her away High unto the regions of day. And, ere she yielded her breath Unto the angel of death, These were the last words she spoke— How sweetly from her lips they broke!— “Saviour, receive my spirit,” Breathed in all the merit Of her Redeemer’s love. He stood waiting above, Watching the angels move Unto His throne. And thus the angel came and went; But they who by the pillow bent Were not the power of vision lent To see the holy being sent Among them then, And moving when He passed away, Felt not the soft zephyrs lay Room for his wing, Heard not the heavenly throng Their glad anthem sing, Till the fulness of their song Made the high arches ring.

THE LAST FAREWELL.

Well I remember Her long, lingering look,— The last farewell I took, Returning from home. ’Twas early September, The cornfields looked yellow, And garden fruits mellow Were beginning to come. She came to the gate with me, And faltered, “Farewell!” But oh! it was a hard one; The silent tear fell Down from her eye. Merrily the birds sang, But in her heart rang A more sorrowful lay, As she saw me away, Watching the turn Where ripples the burn, Till I had gone past; And this was the last— The last of farewells. Oh how Time tells His wonderful power, So stern in the hour!

REFLECTIONS.

Low the flowing crops bent, With their fulness content; And many a sickle was sent Into the rustling fields, While the gay reaper wields The bounty which God yields In his goodness to man. But as I heard these reapers sing, Thought not Death’s reaper would bring To me sorrow so soon; Thought not he would come and remove The one dearest object of love, The earth’s greatest boon, From my presence away. Hallowed shall be that day, In memory alway Most dear unto me; For, though I did not see The angel of death near, She may have seen His sable garments peer From the long ranks of time, And heard his voice chime, “I shall come to bring thee Unto eternity.” Dead! dead! Oh! bid My trembling heart be still. It cannot brook this ill; This strange and burdened truth It cannot bear. The brightness of my youth It chills to hear. Ah me! and has she gone, Who in sickness watched me long, Smoothed my pillow, hushed the throng, And said To childhood’s fears, “Begone!” Who in error chid, And would gently bid A rising rage be still, Or check a stubborn will, In childhood seeming ill. I think I see her now (The smile upon her brow) Sit in the woody shade, Adown the rural glade, So full in song. And watch her fondled boy, With some much cherished toy, Run raptured long. Ah yes! too truly she hath gone. The vacant seat to fill There is none other, there is none To take her place. A mother lost Is ever most A home can bear. Can time never more That image restore? Has that voice gone to keep Its long silent sleep With the dead in the grave? She whom God hath said Should have reverence paid, Here on the earth, All of her birth, Called to give honor, Long life the donor, God hath said shall have. Dead, they all tell me. So strange, it doth seem Like a vision befel me— A wonderful dream, That I no more may breathe That name ever dear, Save in a mournful voice Hushed silent in fear.

THE FUNERAL.

Now the old church bell Tolls forth its death knell, Mournfully to tell The hour has come at last, In heavy sadness past, To bury the dead, And in silence bid. Then the mourners go, All mournfully slow, Every heart beating low The march of the dead. All with soft and gentle tread Unto the sepulchre sped, And humbly bent every head, Bearing to her last home the dead, In all the obsequies due; Every follower, in presence true, Many a well-known neighbour view, Paying his last meet respect Unto her who has gone, And whose remembrance shone Bright in the memory of them. Now through the old town they pace— The good old familiar place, Where often in time before She, in life’s abounding store, Passed by many a friendly door. But now, how changed is the scene! She, cold in death’s awful sheen, Is borne unto the still hallowed green. Every passer turns to see, And they say, “Who can it be?” And they ponder in the thought— One more unto death brought. Soon may we, too, soon be sought. But they who her in life knew Feel the truth more strangely true, And they take a sadder view Of the great loss to the few, Who received the bosom love Which her kind deeds went to prove. Now they tread in the hallowed ground, Where the sons of ages have found Together a home. And they pause by the chosen ground, And all, in a silence profound, Hear the words of comfort flow, In deep power, sadly and low, From the messenger of love, Appointed of God above To tell to His people peace, And from care a glad release; And his words of comfort are Sweeter to their hearts by far Than balm to a seething wound. And now they lay In the cold clay, To moulder away, All that is mortal of her. O grave! receive her; Ye have no terror, But to relieve her A world of woe. ’Tis but a season, Waiting in reason, She shall be there. She hath gone down corruptible, But shall rise incorruptible, Adornéd and fair, When this grave which is closéd Shall again be discloséd, And the Good Shepherd shall call Together unto Him all His people, faithful and good, Who in life steadfast have stood. O widower! weep not, And, orphans, lament not. Weep not by the cold grave, Long not that ye might have Her with you again; But let her remain Alone in the grave, In the peace of her last long abode. Far sweeter is death unto her now.

AFTER THE BURIAL.

All hath been finished now; And from the darkened brow Of the grave the people move, Pondering his own heart to prove, Each unto his home. While of the old dead’s demesne Hallowed fancies come, Living and clear, urgent and fain, As they visit in thought again And again the place where remain Their fathers, the sons of many ages, Gathered from the ever-turning pages Of the volume of time, Like a long running rhyme— Old age and youth, Falsehood and truth, Beauty and pride Side unto side In that old churchyard, In the sacred guard Of hallowed rest. Then a behest Moveth the breast To be holy and meek, Lowly to seek Life unto life, Bearing through strife Unto the end, Trying to blend Love unto life.

HOME SORROW.

Woe is the guest Of every breast As they turn from the grave, Bordered in a wave Of melancholy deep. But their woe is not as our woe In fervor or depth; they cannot know The fulness to weep Which we know,— We who have held the keep Of her noble heart, Who was of our unity the crown, And who was the bosom of our home, Where did the soul of every member come. We know the part, As true mourners, to weep; For never again, While time doth remain, Shall we hear her voice Relating in choice Some well-pleasing tale, Which never could fail The hours to beguile, As many a smile Ran from face unto face. But now her wonted place Is vacant, and we Can sorrow but see In all things which she By remembrance comes. Yet there is a soft tranquil in presence of grief, Which filleth the bosom of hallowed relief, Making the pang sweet which rendeth the heart, Soothing the sorrow and easing the smart, Leading the mind from vain follies away, To seek a more sacred and truthful array.

IN REMEMBRANCE.

O memory of a mother gone! Whene’er with others, or alone, I hear or breathe that sacred name, May it allure the hallowed flame To shine on thee, and lead thy son Into a better life, begun Unworthy that which hath been done. For him and all, and us anon, In course of life I hear the knell Of mournful, solemn funeral bell, Or see the deep black drapings flow Of funeral cortege moving slow. Or, when the sombre weeds I don, May they of warning not be lone, But freely tell, in solemn truth, The waning of my boasted youth; That ere a while those rites shall be Obsequies fashioned over me. Then heedless, hasty spirit, pause To learn and know the better cause Wherefore ye live, and freely ask Of wisdom for a fitter task.

TO THE OBSERVER.

Pause, cold observer, pause awhile; Why will not death thy thoughts beguile? Think ye for ever to abide By this deluding desert side? O wanderer, turn; O wanderer, stay; Why will ye spurn The voice to-day? A little while— An hour—may bring A broken smile, Death on the wing, To bear thee down By laden grief Beneath his frown. The time is brief. Then stay, oh stay! And lend an ear To what the dead— The dying say. Thy doom is hid, Thy death is near; The Judge will bid Thee soon appear.