Page:Poems Cook.djvu/112

His hand the hand of that stranger press'd;
He praised his song, he echo'd his jest;
And the mirth and wit of that new-found mate
Made a blank of the name so prized of late.
"See! see!" cried Death, as he hurried past,
"How bravely the bonds of friendship last!"

But the orphan child! Oh! where was she?
With clasping hands and bended knee,
All alone on the churchyard's sod,
Mingling the names of Mother and God.
Her dark and sunken eye was hid,
Fast weeping beneath the swollen lid;
Her sigh was heavy, her forehead was chill.
Betraying the wound was unhealed still;
And her smother'd prayer was yet heard to crave
A speedy home in the self-same grave.

Hers was the love, all holy and strong;
Hers was the sorrow, fervent and long;
Hers was the spirit, whose light was shed
As an incense fire above the dead!
Death linger'd there, and paused awhile;
But she beckon'd him on with a welcoming smile.
"There's a solace," cried she, "for all others to find;
But a mother leaves no equal behind."
And the kindest blow Death ever gave
Laid the mourning child in the parent's grave.

 

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