Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/The Mourner Comforted
THE MOURNER COMFORTED.
"My boy was beautiful, and he is dead!
Oh, speak no more to me. The voice of man
Grates on my ear, for I would be alone—
Alone, to weep."
Long flow'd that mourner's tears,
But then beside the Bible she knelt down,
And laid her cheek upon its hallow'd page,
And said, "God comfort me."
And as she closed
The fervent prayer, methought a still small voice
Bade the swoln surges of her soul be still,
That He who walk'd upon Tiberias' lake,
Ruling the midnight storm, might thither come,
And save from shipwreck.
Then, with pang subdued,
Her heart went wandering to her loved one's grave,
Marking in every bud that blossom'd there,
In every joyous butterfly that spread
Its radiant wing amid the flowers, a type
Of glorious resurrection. Every drop
Of dew that sparkled on the turf-clad mound
Seem'd holy to her. Even the bitter grief
That made the parting hour so desolate,
Put on the robe of humble faith, and said,
"'Tis well, my Lord, well with the little one
That dwells with thee."
And then methought she heard
A sound of heavenly harpings, and beheld
Celestial gleamings of cherubic wings,
And mid the song of ransom'd infancy
Unto its Saviour, caught the tuneful voice
Of her own cherish'd nursling.
So her lip
Join'd in deep praise. For how could she forbear
To thank her God for him who ne'er should taste
Of trouble more?
Was it his tender tone
That whisper'd, as she lay that night in dreams,
"Oh, mother, weep no more; but with a heart
Of holy love, hold on thy Christian path,
And come to me. For He who took on earth
Young children to his arms, will bid in heaven
The mother find her babe. So keep thine eye
Clear from the grief-cloud, for the time is short,
The way is plain: dear mother, come to me."