Poems (Nealds)/Stanzas (And thou art dead! and lowly laid)

by Adeline Martha Nealds

For works with similar titles, see Stanzas.

STANZAS.

And thou art dead! and lowly laid
 Within the silent grave?
The last sad rites to thee are paid,
 Nor art, nor love, could save
From the insatiate hand of death.
The tyrant stopp'd thy gentle breath,
 And vainly did I crave,
That he would stay his murd'rous dart,
E'en then 'twas rankling in thy heart.

Ah! little did I dream, that thou
 Would'st never more arise;
That thou wert summon'd hence to go,
 To join her in the skies.
Her whom we both did oft deplore;
But thou wilt weep for her no more,
 While my o'erflowing eyes
Must shed unceasing tears of woe,
For where is she? and "where art thou?"

The sun of May, with balmy breath,
 Which thou didst long to see,
Arises on thy bed of death,
 But, ah! it wakes not thee!
And all thy early fav'rite flow'rs,
Which tell of summer's coming hours,
 Now bloom in mockery
Of my sad bosom's bitter pain;
Thou ne'er wilt see those flow'rs again.

For o'er thy cold and darksome tomb,
 In vain May's sun will shine;
Thou feel'st it not—nor the vault's gloom;
 Then why should I repine?
For in thy calm and dreamless sleep,
No thought for me can make thee weep,
 For perfect bliss is thine.
Nor earthly pain, or Joy, or woe,
Can thy free'd spirit ever know.

But if the spirits of the blest,
 From yonder heav'nly sphere,
Look down from their bright home of rest,
 On those who linger here;
Surely my woe thou would'st relieve
And tell me 'tis in vain I grieve,
 And shed the sorrowing tear;
That to this world of care and pain,
'Twere wrong to wish thee back again.

And I shall often vainly watch
 Thy coming form to see;
And listen that light step to catch,
 Which comes no more to me.
But never on my waking ear
Will sound that voice I lov'd to hear,
 Which oft spoke cheeringly;
And bade me cease to weep and sigh,
When thine own eyes were far from dry.

But thou hast reach'd that happy shore,
 Where God to thee will say—
"Live with the bless'd for evermore
 In realms of perfect day."
For thou hast laid thy treasure where,
Nor moth can fret, or robber dare
 Break in and steal away:
And thou a rich reward wilt gain,
For earthly suffering, care, and pain.

Thank heav'n! I watch'd thy dying bed,
 And did my grief control,
That I might lift thy drooping head,
 And soothe thy parting soul.
And though thou'lt ne'er return to me,
Yet I may hope to come to thee;
 And this shall me console,
That when my pilgrimage of life is o'er,
We then may meet in heav'n to part no more.