Poems (Denver)/The Father and his Child

by Mary Caroline Denver

THE FATHER AND HIS CHILD.

He stood and gazed upon her! on her brow
Three summer suns had scarcely shed the light
That should have been all gladness—but had left
A shadow and a thoughtfulness, that seemed
Almost unnatural in one so young,
So beautiful and gentle. Childhood sat
Upon her brow, but all its mirth was gone,
And innocence had shrined itself within
The temple of her spirit, and looked out,
Serene as heaven, from her large deep eyes
Of heaven's own blue. Alas! that grief should cast
A veil of dreaminess upon those orbs,
That half their brightness buried!
              Still she sat;
And by her side sported a little lamb,
As innocent and helpless as herself,
And like herself the last one of the flock!
So thought I. following with saddened eyes,
The gentle playmates; and within my heart,
I felt there was a sympathy between
All things, for every thing God's hand had made.

"Lammy, poor little lammy!" with a start
I listened to the tone of piercing grief,
And waking from my reverie, beheld
Too late, indeed, the cause that called it forth.
A gurgling stream ran through the grassy lawn,
And hither in its sportive playfulness,
The lamb had wandered from its mistress' side,
Skipping and frisking in its fearless mood,
Unconscious of the fate that hovered near!
For while it stood upon the soft dark bank,
The yielding earth gave way, and down it fell,
Wavering an instant on the treacherous edge,
As loth to leave the pleasant world behind.

"Lammy, poor little lammy!" on the bank
She stood with arms outstretched, as if to snatch
Her gentle favorite from its watery grave,
That gave it back no more! and with a sob
Of heartfelt sympathy for that lone child,
I closed my eyes, that filled with bitter grief,
For I, alas! was powerless to save.

"My daughter!" said a deep and manly voice,
In tones of sad affection,—and an arm
Was thrown caressingly around her form;
And as the noble one before me, pressed
The weeping mourner to his manly heart,
His proud lip quivered, and his eyes grew dim,
For she was motherless!
        What love is like
The love we feel for children! O, what love
Is like a father's for his worshiped child;
There dwells a tenderness in every thought,
Too pure for earth, Something that breathes of heaven
Is in the graceful movements of its limbs,
That whispers to his heart, "this angel-one
Is half of heaven!"—and so he feels a love,
Sacred, distinct from all on earth beside.
To which all other love is poor—so much
Is it devoid of passion!
         Children are
The earthly part of angels—sent on earth
To minister unto affection's wants;
Oh! when the heart is sad—when wasted hopes,
And broken friendships, and affliction's rod,
And all the dreams ambition called to life
Are blasted, ere the buds had time to bloom,
That never yet have borne but bitter fruit,
Of sin, or of repentance—when all these
Press heavily upon the aching heart,
How soft the accents of his darling child
Fall on the father's ear! He hears, and feels
Less wretched than before—he hears and feels
That one heart loves him still, amidst the gloom
Of his wrecked fortunes—and he hopes once more,
And when the love affection once enjoyed,
And still remembers vividly, is lost
Forever to the heart; when pallid death
Hath laid his hand upon the loved one's brow,
And dimmed the sparkling eye; when the cold earth
Hath folded in its bosom the fair form
To be returned no more; when the sad train
Of mourners have departed, every one,
And left him in his desolate home alone;
And all the agony, so long pent-up
Within his soul, bursts forth—and as he clasps
His orphaned children to his bleeding heart,
A tenderness he knew not of before,
Towards them fills all his soul, until he deems
Their mother's spirit watches from above,
Speaking unto his own, of those loved ones,
So helpless and so innocent; he feels
A comfort even in wretchedness; lie sees
Their mother's beauty on each brow; he hears
Her voice in every lisping tone; and turns
Involuntarily to meet the eyes
Cold, cold alas! in death! and then the tide
Of his strong feelings, separated once,
Now pours itself along in one broad stream
Of concentrated and unwasting power!—
O, sacred be such feelings; there is less
Of earth than heaven in them!