Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/567

When life's trials wait around thee,
 And its chilling billows swell,
Thou'lt thank heaven that I am spared them,
 Thou'lt then feel that "all is well."

Bring our boys unto my bedside;
 My last blessing let them keep—
But they're sleeping; do not wake them—
 They'll learn soon enough to weep.

Tell them often of their mother,
 Kiss them for me when they wake;
Lead them gently in the pathway;
 Love them doubly for my sake.

Clasp my hand still closer, darling,
 This, the last night of my life;
For to-morrow I shall never
 Answer when you call me "wife."

Fare thee well, my noble husband;
 Faint not 'neath this chastening rod;
Throw your strong arm round our children;
 Keep them close to thee—and God.

The Mourner.

Half-unbelieving doth my heart remain of its great woe;
I waken, and a dull dead sense of pain is all I know.

Then dimly in the darkness of my mind I feel about,
To know what 'tis that troubles me, and find my sorrow out.

And hardly with long pains my heart I bring its loss to own:
Still seems it so impossible a thing that thou art gone—

That not in all my life I evermore, with pleased ear,
Thy quick light feet advancing to my door again shall hear—

That thou not ever with inquiring looks or subtle talk
Shalt bring to me sweet hindrance 'mid my books or studious walk—

That whatsoever else of good for me in store remain,
This lieth out of hope, my child, to see thy face again.