Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Mother's Jewels

The Mother's Jewels.

    The dreamy night draws nigh;Soft airs delicious breathe of mingled flowers,And on the wings of slumber creep the hours;    The moon is high.    See yonder tiny cot,The lattice decked with vines; a tremulous rayStrolls out to where the silver moonbeams lay,    Yet pales them not!     Within, two holy eyes,Two little hands clasped softly, and a browWhere thought sits busy, weaving garlands now    Of joys and sights    For the swift coming years.Two rosy lips with innocent worship part:List I be thou saint or sceptic, if thou art    Thou must have ears:  'Now I lay me down to sleep,  I pray the Lord my soul to keep;  If I should die before I wake,  I pray the Lord my soul to take.'

    Doth it not noiseless opeThe very floodgates of thy heart, and makeA better man of thee, for her sweet sake,    Who, with strong hope,    Her sweet task ne'er forgotTo whisper, 'Now I lay me,' o'er and o'er?As thou didst kneel upon the sanded floor—    Forget them not!

    From many a festive hall,Where flashing light and flashing glances vie,And, robed in splendour, mirth makes revelry—    Soft voices call    On the light-hearted throngsTo sweep the harp-strings, and to join the dance.The careless girl starts lightly, as perchance,    Amid the songs,    The merry laugh, the jest,Come to her vision songs of long ago,When, by her downy conch, she murmured low,    Before her rest,    That simple infant prayer.Once more at home, she lays her jewels by,Throws back the curls that shade her heavy eye,    And kneeling there,    With quivering lip and sigh,Takes from her finger white the sparkling rings,The golden coronet from her brow, and flings    The baubles by;    Nor doth she thoughtless dareTo seek her rest, till she hath asked of HeavenThat all her sins, through Christ, may be forgiven.    Then comes the prayer:   "Now I lay me down to sleep,  I pray the Lord my soul to keep;  If I should die before I wake,  I pray the Lord my soul to take."

    The warrior on the battlefield,After the battle—pillowing his head,Perhaps, upon a fallen comrade dead—    Scorns not to yieldTo the sweet memories of his childhood's hour,When fame was bartered for a crimson flower.    The statesman grey,His massive brow all hung with laurel leaves,Forgets his honours while his memory weavesA picture of that home, 'mid woods and streams,Where hoary mountains caught the sun's first beams;A cabin rude—the wide fields glistening,The cattle yoked, and mutely listening;The farmer's toil, the farmer's face, and, bestOf earthly luxuries, the farmer's rest.But hark! a soft voice steals upon his heart:"Now say your prayer, my son, before we partAnd clasping his great hands—a child once more—Upon his breast, forgetting life's long war,    Thus hear him pray:  "Now I lay me down to sleep,  I pray the Lord my soul to keep;  If I should die before I wake,  I pray the Lord my soul to take."