Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/The Dying Mother
THE DYING MOTHER.
"How sweet to gaze upon thy placid brow,
My child! my child! like some unfolding bud
Of stainless snow-drop. Ah, how sweet to catch
Thy gentle breath upon my cheek, and feel
The bright redundance of thy silken hair,
My beautiful first-born. Life seems more fair
Since thou art mine. How soon amid its flowers
Thy little feet will gambol by my side,
My own pet-lamb. And then to train thee up
To be an angel, and to live for God—
O glorious hope!"
Fast fell the tears of joy
As the young mother spake.
But deep within,
A foe was busy at the seat of life,
And other language than her own fond hopes
Was traced by dire disease. A hollow voice
In midnight visions warn'd her of the tomb.
The surge roll'd heavy, yet there was a Rock
On which her soul found rest when the frail flesh
Wasted away.
"The cup my Father gives,
Shall I not drink it?"
So she bow'd her down,
While the new tie that bound her to the earth
So tenderly, was cut—then stretch'd her hand
To the Redeemer, whom in days of youth
She served and honour'd, and went home—went home.
—And now, Heaven bless thee, babe, whose tiny bark
Is launch'd so lonely on this tossing sea
Of time and change; and mid thy future course,
If here, in our dark clime, thy years unfold,
Bind her fair image to thy loving heart,
My little one, and let thy father hear
From thy young lips the same rejoicing words
Of piety and peace, which thrill'd his heart
With grateful prayer when at his fireside sat
The chosen idol of his early love.