It is a mournful song I sing—
A loving mother dead.
Who can so hard a tiding bring,
Or deeper sorrow bid.

THE MESSAGE.

Soft as an angel’s breath,
Swift as the wings of death,
Through all the haunts of men,
By lake and by river,
Across forest and fen,
Onward they sped, pausÉd they never.
By hamlet or hall,
Mystic their pall,
Hied as a spirit hidden from view,
Faithless nor wavering, ever more true.
Onward these words sped—
“Your mother is dead.”
Quick as a dart,
Piercing the heart,
Bore they upon me;
Reeling the blow sent me.
Oh! for the woe lent me,
How could I stand.

THE AFFLICTOR.

Was it the hand of God lifted the rod?
Oh how hard does it seem, wonderful God!
Mighty and marvellous, we but behold
In wonder and awe Thy mysteries told—
The work of Thy hand
Throughout all the land,
Bearing on mankind—
Man frail and mortal.
Dark and ambiguous, mighty and grand,
All Thy works are;
Thee, whom all the angels adore,
Falling in prostration before
Thy radiant throne.
In beauty of state
The archangels wait,
Seeking Thy glory,
Great God, alone.
How shall we bend,
Seeking to lend
Humble adorance, worship before Thee?
How shall we yield us meekly submissive
Unto Thy will?
So prone is the heart oft to rebel,
Murmuring still;
From morning until night,
And
From darkness until light,
It doth rebel.
Send,
O Lord! the spirit of meekness,
And dispel
All turbulent thought
And vainglory sought.
We are but nought
In the presence of Thy greatness.

THE COMFORTER.

O Lord! reach us
Thy hand, rich in comfort and love;
Our grief soothe, and raise us above
The tide of woe in which we move;
In this loss console us; sweet may
Our mourning be; oh! let us say,
“God hath removÉd her; He took her away.”
And, Lord, teach us
In all things Thy wisdom to see.
Thou wouldst not have us alway be
Wandering this vale of misery.

HER SUFFERING.

Great had her sorrow been,
Anguish and woe,
Pouring their full fury,
Bearing her low.
But, in agony sore,
The affliction she bore
Meek as a child.
Though every breath was in agony seethed,
Yet not a murmur her parchÉd lips breathed,
So passively mild.
All the earth’s gladness
Is but as sadness
Unto her now.
All its gay pleasures
And its great treasures
Are but as measures
Empty and vain.
Peace, peace in her soul
Has fullest control.

HER DEATH.

Then the deliverer came,
And, in the glorious name
Of the great God, took her away
High unto the regions of day.
And, ere she yielded her breath
Unto the angel of death,
These were the last words she spoke—
How sweetly from her lips they broke!—
“Saviour, receive my spirit,”
Breathed in all the merit
Of her Redeemer’s love.
He stood waiting above,
Watching the angels move
Unto His throne.
And thus the angel came and went;
But they who by the pillow bent
Were not the power of vision lent
To see the holy being sent
Among them then,
And moving when
He passed away,
Felt not the soft zephyrs lay
Room for his wing,
Heard not the heavenly throng
Their glad anthem sing,
Till the fulness of their song
Made the high arches ring.

THE LAST FAREWELL.

Well I remember
Her long, lingering look,—
The last farewell I took,
Returning from home.
’Twas early September,
The cornfields looked yellow,
And garden fruits mellow
Were beginning to come.
She came to the gate with me,
And faltered, “Farewell!”
But oh! it was a hard one;
The silent tear fell
Down from her eye.
Merrily the birds sang,
But in her heart rang
A more sorrowful lay,
As she saw me away,
Watching the turn
Where ripples the burn,
Till I had gone past;
And this was the last—
The last of farewells.
Oh how Time tells
His wonderful power,
So stern in the hour!

REFLECTIONS.

Low the flowing crops bent,
With their fulness content;
And many a sickle was sent
Into the rustling fields,
While the gay reaper wields
The bounty which God yields
In his goodness to man.
But as I heard these reapers sing,
Thought not Death’s reaper would bring
To me sorrow so soon;
Thought not he would come and remove
The one dearest object of love,
The earth’s greatest boon,
From my presence away.
Hallowed shall be that day,
In memory alway
Most dear unto me;
For, though I did not see
The angel of death near,
She may have seen
His sable garments peer
From the long ranks of time,
And heard his voice chime,
“I shall come to bring thee
Unto eternity.”
Dead! dead!
Oh! bid
My trembling heart be still.
It cannot brook this ill;
This strange and burdened truth
It cannot bear.
The brightness of my youth
It chills to hear.
Ah me! and has she gone,
Who in sickness watched me long,
Smoothed my pillow, hushed the throng,
And said
To childhood’s fears, “Begone!”
Who in error chid,
And would gently bid
A rising rage be still,
Or check a stubborn will,
In childhood seeming ill.
I think I see her now
(The smile upon her brow)
Sit in the woody shade,
Adown the rural glade,
So full in song.
And watch her fondled boy,
With some much cherished toy,
Run raptured long.
Ah yes! too truly she hath gone.
The vacant seat to fill
There is none other, there is none
To take her place.
A mother lost
Is ever most
A home can bear.
Can time never more
That image restore?
Has that voice gone to keep
Its long silent sleep
With the dead in the grave?
She whom God hath said
Should have reverence paid,
Here on the earth,
All of her birth,
Called to give honor,
Long life the donor,
God hath said shall have.
Dead, they all tell me.
So strange, it doth seem
Like a vision befel me—
A wonderful dream,
That I no more may breathe
That name ever dear,
Save in a mournful voice
Hushed silent in fear.

THE FUNERAL.

Now the old church bell
Tolls forth its death knell,
Mournfully to tell
The hour has come at last,
In heavy sadness past,
To bury the dead,
And in silence bid.
Then the mourners go,
All mournfully slow,
Every heart beating low
The march of the dead.
All with soft and gentle tread
Unto the sepulchre sped,
And humbly bent every head,
Bearing to her last home the dead,
In all the obsequies due;
Every follower, in presence true,
Many a well-known neighbour view,
Paying his last meet respect
Unto her who has gone,
And whose remembrance shone
Bright in the memory of them.
Now through the old town they pace—
The good old familiar place,
Where often in time before
She, in life’s abounding store,
Passed by many a friendly door.
But now, how changed is the scene!
She, cold in death’s awful sheen,
Is borne unto the still hallowed green.
Every passer turns to see,
And they say, “Who can it be?”
And they ponder in the thought—
One more unto death brought.
Soon may we, too, soon be sought.
But they who her in life knew
Feel the truth more strangely true,
And they take a sadder view
Of the great loss to the few,
Who received the bosom love
Which her kind deeds went to prove.
Now they tread in the hallowed ground,
Where the sons of ages have found
Together a home.
And they pause by the chosen ground,
And all, in a silence profound,
Hear the words of comfort flow,
In deep power, sadly and low,
From the messenger of love,
Appointed of God above
To tell to His people peace,
And from care a glad release;
And his words of comfort are
Sweeter to their hearts by far
Than balm to a seething wound.
And now they lay
In the cold clay,
To moulder away,
All that is mortal of her.
O grave! receive her;
Ye have no terror,
But to relieve her
A world of woe.
’Tis but a season,
Waiting in reason,
She shall be there.
She hath gone down corruptible,
But shall rise incorruptible,
AdornÉd and fair,
When this grave which is closÉd
Shall again be disclosÉd,
And the Good Shepherd shall call
Together unto Him all
His people, faithful and good,
Who in life steadfast have stood.
O widower! weep not,
And, orphans, lament not.
Weep not by the cold grave,
Long not that ye might have
Her with you again;
But let her remain
Alone in the grave,
In the peace of her last long abode.
Far sweeter is death unto her now.

AFTER THE BURIAL.

All hath been finished now;
And from the darkened brow
Of the grave the people move,
Pondering his own heart to prove,
Each unto his home.
While of the old dead’s demesne
Hallowed fancies come,
Living and clear, urgent and fain,
As they visit in thought again
And again the place where remain
Their fathers, the sons of many ages,
Gathered from the ever-turning pages
Of the volume of time,
Like a long running rhyme—
Old age and youth,
Falsehood and truth,
Beauty and pride
Side unto side
In that old churchyard,
In the sacred guard
Of hallowed rest.
Then a behest
Moveth the breast
To be holy and meek,
Lowly to seek
Life unto life,
Bearing through strife
Unto the end,
Trying to blend
Love unto life.

HOME SORROW.

Woe is the guest
Of every breast
As they turn from the grave,
Bordered in a wave
Of melancholy deep.
But their woe is not as our woe
In fervor or depth; they cannot know
The fulness to weep
Which we know,—
We who have held the keep
Of her noble heart,
Who was of our unity the crown,
And who was the bosom of our home,
Where did the soul of every member come.
We know the part,
As true mourners, to weep;
For never again,
While time doth remain,
Shall we hear her voice
Relating in choice
Some well-pleasing tale,
Which never could fail
The hours to beguile,
As many a smile
Ran from face unto face.
But now her wonted place
Is vacant, and we
Can sorrow but see
In all things which she
By remembrance comes.
Yet there is a soft tranquil in presence of grief,
Which filleth the bosom of hallowed relief,
Making the pang sweet which rendeth the heart,
Soothing the sorrow and easing the smart,
Leading the mind from vain follies away,
To seek a more sacred and truthful array.

IN REMEMBRANCE.

O memory of a mother gone!
Whene’er with others, or alone,
I hear or breathe that sacred name,
May it allure the hallowed flame
To shine on thee, and lead thy son
Into a better life, begun
Unworthy that which hath been done.
For him and all, and us anon,
In course of life I hear the knell
Of mournful, solemn funeral bell,
Or see the deep black drapings flow
Of funeral cortege moving slow.
Or, when the sombre weeds I don,
May they of warning not be lone,
But freely tell, in solemn truth,
The waning of my boasted youth;
That ere a while those rites shall be
Obsequies fashioned over me.
Then heedless, hasty spirit, pause
To learn and know the better cause
Wherefore ye live, and freely ask
Of wisdom for a fitter task.

TO THE OBSERVER.

Pause, cold observer, pause awhile;
Why will not death thy thoughts beguile?
Think ye for ever to abide
By this deluding desert side?
O wanderer, turn;
O wanderer, stay;
Why will ye spurn
The voice to-day?
A little while—
An hour—may bring
A broken smile,
Death on the wing,
To bear thee down
By laden grief
Beneath his frown.
The time is brief.
Then stay, oh stay!
And lend an ear
To what the dead—
The dying say.
Thy doom is hid,
Thy death is near;
The Judge will bid
Thee soon appear.