THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR.
79
Upon the hearth, and sat in silent awe, Until terrific shapes those shadows grew.The maiden uttered one low, wailing cry, Then her white lips grew cold, she could not speakThe eyelid white drooped o'er the beaming eye, And faded all the rose tints from her cheek.
And when at last the golden rays of morn Dispelled the shadows of that fearful night,The father, mother, stricken and forlorn, Gazed on that form where death had left its blight.And at the eventide to mother earth They gave that lovely tenement of clay;But still the shadows lingered on their hearth, As if they nevermore would go away.
Though many summers round their home have smiled, With bird-songs joyous, bright with flowers' bloom,Since death came on that night and took their child,— Still linger in their hearts those shapes of gloom,That never, never more shall take their flight Till in that Land where comes no grief nor pain,—Where death no more the soul's fair hopes can blight,— They meet their own, their long-lost child again.
