Poems (Trask)/Lost

by Clara Augusta Jones Trask

For works with similar titles, see Lost.

LOST.

THE drifting rain came o'er the western hills,
  The air was blind with spray;
To thund'ring rivers swelled the simple rills,
The roaring torrents drowned the grinding mills,
  The mists obscured the day.
She trod with nimble feet the beaten track,
  Up, up the mountain's steep,
Along the dingle deep, nor looked she back,
  Though in her train the frozen rain
Leaped in a cataract.

The sheep were on the heights,—her lamb, her pet,
  She called his gentle name;
And, through the flying drifts of cold and wet,
The heaving mists around her like a net,
  She vanished like a flame.
The avalanche burst from the mountain's side
  And crushed the mighty trees,
Ran down the crags in seas, a deathly tide;
  And men grew pale, and on the gale
Rang curse and prayer allied.

From night the morning came. The red sun flush
  Lay on the highlands bleak;
And in the dreamy air there was a hush,
And on the dismal scene there was a blush
  Like shame on anger's cheek;
But never home came lamb or maiden more,
  Down, down the mountain's steep.
But, fright'ning the old wives, when tempests roar,
  Her voice calls clear on night's dead ear
The lamb's name as before.