Act 5 — LINES IN MEMORY OF MY LOST CHILD.

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BY GEORGE D. PRENTICE.

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My child! my dear, lost child! a father’s heart,

Touched by the holy wand of memory,

Would in this hour of loneliness and gloom,

When not a sound is borne upon the air,

And not a star is visible in heaven,

Hold sweet communion with thy soul.

My boy!

Thou wast most beautiful. I never looked

On thee but with a heart of pride. Thy curls

Fell o’er a brow of angel-loveliness,

And thy dark eyes, dark as the midnight cloud,

And soft as twilight waters, flashed and glowed

In strange, wild beauty, yet thy tears were far

More frequent than thy smiles—thy wail of pain

Came oftener on our hearts than thy dear cry

Of infant joyousness. Thy few brief months

Were months of suffering; ay, thy cup of life

Was bitter, bitter, but thou wast not doomed

To drain it, for a God of mercy soon

Let it pass from thee.

Oh! how well, my child,

Do I remember that all mournful day,

When thy young mother bore thy wasting form,

With breaking heart and streaming eyes, afar,

In the vain hope to save the dear young life

To which the tendrils of her own were bound.

With one wild pressure of thy little form

To my sad bosom, with a frantic kiss

Upon thy pallid lips, and a hot tear

Wrung from a burning brain, I said farewell—

Alas! my child, I never saw thee more.

In a strange land, far from thy own dear home,

But with the holy ministries of love

Around thy couch, thy little being passed,

Like the sweet perfume of a bright young rose,

To mingle with the skies from whence it came.

Oh! in that hour, my child, thy lost of earth,

Did not a thought of thy poor father’s love

Soften the anguish of thy parting soul,

And were not thy dear little arms outstretched

To meet his fond caress!

Thou sleepest, child,

Where the Missouri rolls its wild, dark waves,

And I have never gazed upon thy grave.

No tears of deep affection ever blend

With the soft dews and gentle rains that fall

Upon the turf that lies above thy breast;

But, oh! the spot is hallowed. There the Spring,

The bright Spring, yearly throws her loveliest wreaths

Of buds and blossoms—there, at morn and eve,

The viewless spirit of the zephyr breathes

Its holiest whispers in the springing grass

As if communing with thee—there the birds

Glance through the air like winged souls, and pour

Their sweet, unearthly melodies—and there

At the soft twilight hour young angels come

To hover o’er the spot on silver wings,

And mark it with their shining foot-prints.

Thou

Art gone, my child—a sweet and holy bud

Is shaken from the rose-tree of our hopes;

But yet we should not mourn. ’Tis joy to know

That thou hast gone in thy young innocence

And purity and beauty from a dark,

Ungentle world, where many snares beset

The path of manhood. Ay, ’tis joy to know

That the Eolian lyre of thy young soul

Gives out its music in the Eden clime,

Unvisited by earth’s cold, bitter winds,

Its poison-dews, its fogs, its winter rains,

Its tempests and its lightnings.

My sweet child,

Thou art no more a blossom of the earth,

But, oh! the thought of thee is yet a spell

On our sad spirits. ’Tis a lovely flower

On memory’s lonely stream, a holy star

In retrospection’s sky, a rainbow-gleam

Upon the tempest-clouds of life. Our hearts,

Our stricken hearts, lean to thee, love, and thus

They lean to heaven, for thou art there. Yes, thou

And thy young sister are in heaven, while we

Are lingering on the earth’s cold desert. Come,

Ye two sweet cherubs of God’s Paradise,

Who wander side by side, and hand in hand,

Among the Amaranthine flowers that bloom

Beside the living waters—come, oh come,

Sometimes upon your bright and snowy wings,

In the deep watches of the silent night,

And breathe into our souls the holy words

That ye have heard the angels speak in heaven.