A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/To a Bereaved Mother (Jean Reboul)
TO A BEREAVED MOTHER.
An angel with a radiant face
Bent o'er the cradle of a child,
As in a waveless brook to trace
His own sweet image undefiled.
'O charming child, that seem'st my shade,'
Said he,—'come, come away with me;
Oh come, and let no fears dissuade,
This earth is not a place for thee.
'Here never is an unmixed joy,
Distinct from suffering and from pain,
Nothing, alas, without alloy;
No smile but has its sigh again.
'Ah! Not one pleasure here is sure!
The calmest day,—the brightest sun,
A murky tempest will obscure
Perhaps before its course be run.
'And what! Shall griefs disturb or fears
This brow as pure as summer skies
And shall the bitterness of tears
Bedim the lustre of these eyes!
'No! No! With me through boundless space,
Thou shalt delight, my child, to rove;
The great good Father sends this grace
And spares thee further years, in love.
'I take thee hence away, my flower,
From those that thee have fondly nurst,
But let them greet the last, last hour
As joyful as they hailed the first.
'Let none wear mourning in this home,
No heart keep sorrow as its guest;
For souls as pure as ocean-foam
The last day is of all the best.'
The angel spoke, and shook his wings,
And to the Throne eternal sped,
Whence gush for man Life's crystal springs.
Poor mother! there thy child lies dead.