THE MOURNERS.
King Death sped forth in his dreaded power
To make the most of his tyrant hour;
And the first he took was a white-robed girl,
With the orange-bloom twined in each glossy curl.
Her fond betrothed hung over the bier,
Bathing her shroud with the gushing tear;
He madly raved; he utter'd his pain;
With frantic speech and burning brain,
"There's no joy," cried he, "now my dearest is gone.
Take, take me, Death; for I cannot live on!"
To make the most of his tyrant hour;
And the first he took was a white-robed girl,
With the orange-bloom twined in each glossy curl.
Her fond betrothed hung over the bier,
Bathing her shroud with the gushing tear;
He madly raved; he utter'd his pain;
With frantic speech and burning brain,
"There's no joy," cried he, "now my dearest is gone.
Take, take me, Death; for I cannot live on!"
The sire was robb'd of his eldest-born;
And he bitterly bled while the branch was torn:
Other scions were round, as good and fair;
But none seem'd so bright as the breathless heir.
"My hopes are crush'd," was the father's cry;
"Since my darling is lost, I, too, would die."
The valued friend was snatched away;
Bound to another from childhood's day;
And the one that was left, exclaim'd in despair;
"Oh! he sleeps in the tomb—let me follow him there!"
And he bitterly bled while the branch was torn:
Other scions were round, as good and fair;
But none seem'd so bright as the breathless heir.
"My hopes are crush'd," was the father's cry;
"Since my darling is lost, I, too, would die."
The valued friend was snatched away;
Bound to another from childhood's day;
And the one that was left, exclaim'd in despair;
"Oh! he sleeps in the tomb—let me follow him there!"
A mother was taken, whose constant love
Had nestled her child like a fair, young dove;
And the heart of that child to the mother had grown,
As the ivy to oak, or the moss to the stone.
Nor loud nor wild was the burst of woe;
But the tide of anguish ran strong below;
And the reft one turn'd from all that was light;
From the flowers of day and the stars of night;
Sighing—where none might hear or see—
"Where thou art, my mother, thy child would be."
Had nestled her child like a fair, young dove;
And the heart of that child to the mother had grown,
As the ivy to oak, or the moss to the stone.
Nor loud nor wild was the burst of woe;
But the tide of anguish ran strong below;
And the reft one turn'd from all that was light;
From the flowers of day and the stars of night;
Sighing—where none might hear or see—
"Where thou art, my mother, thy child would be."
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