Poems (Truesdell)/The Consumptive
Jump to navigation
Jump to search
THE CONSUMPTIVE.
"Can this be death? There's bloom upon her cheek!
But now I see it is no living hue,
But a strange hectic—like the unnatural red
Which autumn plants upon the perished leaf."
But now I see it is no living hue,
But a strange hectic—like the unnatural red
Which autumn plants upon the perished leaf."
'Twas on a lovely sabbath eve,
I walked me forth to take the air,
When, 'neath a vine-clad cottage roof,
I saw a young and lovely pair:
The youth was tall and finely formed,
But in his dark, expressive eye
Some deep laid sorrow seemed to dwell,
And from his bosom came a sigh.
I walked me forth to take the air,
When, 'neath a vine-clad cottage roof,
I saw a young and lovely pair:
The youth was tall and finely formed,
But in his dark, expressive eye
Some deep laid sorrow seemed to dwell,
And from his bosom came a sigh.
The lady, fair and slightly formed,—
Her eyes were dark, and lustrous too,—
But, oh! that lovely cheek of hers
Wore far too deep the roseate hue.
I listened, but no word was spoken;
A low, deep cough broke on mine ear,—
It was enough, I turned aside
To dry away a starting tear.
Her eyes were dark, and lustrous too,—
But, oh! that lovely cheek of hers
Wore far too deep the roseate hue.
I listened, but no word was spoken;
A low, deep cough broke on mine ear,—
It was enough, I turned aside
To dry away a starting tear.
The lady spoke at length, and said—
"Dearest! I soon from thee must part,
But I shall bear, e'en unto death,
Thine image graved upon my heart?
Thy watchful love, thy tender care
Of me, I never can requite;
But there is One who dwells above,
And will reward in power and might."
"Dearest! I soon from thee must part,
But I shall bear, e'en unto death,
Thine image graved upon my heart?
Thy watchful love, thy tender care
Of me, I never can requite;
But there is One who dwells above,
And will reward in power and might."
"Nay! talk not thus," he wildly said—
So young, so fair, so lately wed!
I can not bear to think that thou
Must wear the cypress o'er thy brow;
I can not bear to yield thee up!
God give me grace to drink the cup!"
So young, so fair, so lately wed!
I can not bear to think that thou
Must wear the cypress o'er thy brow;
I can not bear to yield thee up!
God give me grace to drink the cup!"
"Cease thy repinings—vain indeed,—
For, oh! I feel death on me now:—
Here, clasp me closer to thy heart,
And lay thy hand upon my brow;—
And say, beloved, when I am gone,
Thou wilt not mourn for my return;
Life's feverish dreams are almost o'er,—
We part, dear friend, to meet no more
On earth; but ties, thus rudely riven,
Will soon be fondly blent in heaven!"
For, oh! I feel death on me now:—
Here, clasp me closer to thy heart,
And lay thy hand upon my brow;—
And say, beloved, when I am gone,
Thou wilt not mourn for my return;
Life's feverish dreams are almost o'er,—
We part, dear friend, to meet no more
On earth; but ties, thus rudely riven,
Will soon be fondly blent in heaven!"
She spoke no more, her breath failed fast,
She gave one look—it was the last—
'Twas full of faith, and hope, and love;
Then raising her dying eyes above.
He sadly bowed himself and wept:
The servants deemed their lady slept,
And wondered at the grief so wild
That bowed their master like a child;
But soon the truth upon them broke—
She wept indeed, but never woke!
She gave one look—it was the last—
'Twas full of faith, and hope, and love;
Then raising her dying eyes above.
He sadly bowed himself and wept:
The servants deemed their lady slept,
And wondered at the grief so wild
That bowed their master like a child;
But soon the truth upon them broke—
She wept indeed, but never woke!
Not long he lingered here below,
With none to soothe his silent woe:
They sleep together, side by side—
The bridegroom, and his fair young bride;
Not on a downy couch they lay,
But in their prison-house of clay;
Their bodies rest beneath the sod—
Their spirits dwell, I trust, with God.
With none to soothe his silent woe:
They sleep together, side by side—
The bridegroom, and his fair young bride;
Not on a downy couch they lay,
But in their prison-house of clay;
Their bodies rest beneath the sod—
Their spirits dwell, I trust, with God.