Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Death and Burial of a Child at Sea
Death and Burial of a Child at Sea.
My boy refused his food, forgot to play,
And sickened on the waters, day by day;
He smiled more seldom on his mother's smile;
He prattled less in accents void of guile,
Of that wild, land, beyond the golden wave,
Where I, not he, was doomed to be a slave;
Cold o'er his limbs the listless languor grew;
Paleness came o'er his eye of placid blue;
Pale mourned the lily where the rose had died,
And timid, trembling, came he to my side.
He was my all on earth. Oh! who can speak
The anxious mother's too prophetic woe,
Who sees death feeding on her dear child's cheek,
And strives in vain to think it is not so?
Ah! many a sad and sleepless night I passed
O'er his couch, listening in the pausing blast,
While on his brow, more sad from hour to hour,
Drooped wan Dejection, like a fading flower!
At length my boy seemed better, and I slept—
Oh, soundly!—but methought my mother wept
O'er her poor Emma; and, in accents low,
Said, "Ah! why do I weep, and weep in vain
Por one so loved, so lost? Emma, thy pain
Draws to a close! Even now is rent in twain
The loveliest link that binds thy breast to woe—
Soon, broken heart, we soon shall meet again!"
Then o'er my face her freezing hand she crossed,
And bending, kissed me with her lip of frost.
I waked: and at my side—oh! still and cold!—
Oh! what a tale that dreadful chillness told!
Shrieking, I started up, in terror wild;—
Alas! and had I lived to dread my child?
Eager I snatched him from his swinging bed;
His limbs were stiff—he moved not—he was dead!
Oh! let me weep!—what mother would not weep,
To see her child committed to the deep?
No mournful flowers, by weeping fondness laid,
Nor pink, nor rose, drooped, on his breast displayed,
Nor half-blown daisy iu his little hand:—
Wide was the field around, but 'twas not land.
Enamoured death, with sweetly pensive grace,
Was awful beauty to his silent face.
No more his sad eye looked me into tears!
Closed was that eye beneath his pale cold brow;
And on his calm lips, which had lost their glow,
But which, though pale, seemed half unclosed to speak,
Loitered a smile, like moonlight on the snow.
I gazed upon him still—not wild with fears—
Gone were my fears, and present was despair!
But, as I gazed, a little lock of hair,
Stirred by the breeze, played, trembling on his cheek
O God! my heart!—I thought life still was there.
But, to commit him to the watery grave,
O'er which the winds, unwearied mourners, rave,
One, who strove darkly sorrow's sob to stay,
Upraised the body: thrice I bade him stay;
Bor still my wordless woe had much to say,
And still I bent and gazed, and gazing wept.
At last my sisters, with humane constraint,
Held me, and I was calm as dying saint;
While that stern weeper- lowered into the sea
My ill-starred boy! Deep—buried deep, he slept.
And then I looked to heaven in agony,
And prayed to end my pilgrimage of pain,
That I might meet my beauteous boy again!
Oh, had he lived to reach this wretched land,
And then expired, I would have blessed the strand!
But where my poor boy lies I may not lie;
I cannot come, with broken heart, to sigh
O'er his loved dust, and strew with flowers his turf—
His pillow hath no cover but the surf;
I may not pour the soul-drop from mine eye
Near his cold bed: he slumbers in the wave!
Oh! I will love the sea, because it is his grave!
And sickened on the waters, day by day;
He smiled more seldom on his mother's smile;
He prattled less in accents void of guile,
Of that wild, land, beyond the golden wave,
Where I, not he, was doomed to be a slave;
Cold o'er his limbs the listless languor grew;
Paleness came o'er his eye of placid blue;
Pale mourned the lily where the rose had died,
And timid, trembling, came he to my side.
He was my all on earth. Oh! who can speak
The anxious mother's too prophetic woe,
Who sees death feeding on her dear child's cheek,
And strives in vain to think it is not so?
Ah! many a sad and sleepless night I passed
O'er his couch, listening in the pausing blast,
While on his brow, more sad from hour to hour,
Drooped wan Dejection, like a fading flower!
At length my boy seemed better, and I slept—
Oh, soundly!—but methought my mother wept
O'er her poor Emma; and, in accents low,
Said, "Ah! why do I weep, and weep in vain
Por one so loved, so lost? Emma, thy pain
Draws to a close! Even now is rent in twain
The loveliest link that binds thy breast to woe—
Soon, broken heart, we soon shall meet again!"
Then o'er my face her freezing hand she crossed,
And bending, kissed me with her lip of frost.
I waked: and at my side—oh! still and cold!—
Oh! what a tale that dreadful chillness told!
Shrieking, I started up, in terror wild;—
Alas! and had I lived to dread my child?
Eager I snatched him from his swinging bed;
His limbs were stiff—he moved not—he was dead!
Oh! let me weep!—what mother would not weep,
To see her child committed to the deep?
No mournful flowers, by weeping fondness laid,
Nor pink, nor rose, drooped, on his breast displayed,
Nor half-blown daisy iu his little hand:—
Wide was the field around, but 'twas not land.
Enamoured death, with sweetly pensive grace,
Was awful beauty to his silent face.
No more his sad eye looked me into tears!
Closed was that eye beneath his pale cold brow;
And on his calm lips, which had lost their glow,
But which, though pale, seemed half unclosed to speak,
Loitered a smile, like moonlight on the snow.
I gazed upon him still—not wild with fears—
Gone were my fears, and present was despair!
But, as I gazed, a little lock of hair,
Stirred by the breeze, played, trembling on his cheek
O God! my heart!—I thought life still was there.
But, to commit him to the watery grave,
O'er which the winds, unwearied mourners, rave,
One, who strove darkly sorrow's sob to stay,
Upraised the body: thrice I bade him stay;
Bor still my wordless woe had much to say,
And still I bent and gazed, and gazing wept.
At last my sisters, with humane constraint,
Held me, and I was calm as dying saint;
While that stern weeper- lowered into the sea
My ill-starred boy! Deep—buried deep, he slept.
And then I looked to heaven in agony,
And prayed to end my pilgrimage of pain,
That I might meet my beauteous boy again!
Oh, had he lived to reach this wretched land,
And then expired, I would have blessed the strand!
But where my poor boy lies I may not lie;
I cannot come, with broken heart, to sigh
O'er his loved dust, and strew with flowers his turf—
His pillow hath no cover but the surf;
I may not pour the soul-drop from mine eye
Near his cold bed: he slumbers in the wave!
Oh! I will love the sea, because it is his grave!