Page:Poems Welby.djvu/116

  I have been like a spell,
Binding thee unto earth, but death hath prest
His cold and heavy hand upon my breast—
  Mother, I go—farewell!

Slowly her arms unwound their wreathing clasp
Around her mother's neck, and her fair head
Fell heavy back, while a low lengthened gasp
Stirred her cold marble bosom—she was dead.
Silent that mother gazed, the mighty flood
Of grief within her breast she strove to hide,
For it seemed sin to weep, while thus she stood
Above the holy dead, the sanctified.

It was no time to mourn, for she had vet
A bitter mournful duty to fulfil,
To press the eyelids o'er the blue orbs set,
To close the sweet lips smiling on her still;
She laid the ringlets round the lifeless face,
And wrapped the loose shroud round the slender form,
That lay in mute and melancholy grace
As if spell-bound in slumber soft and warm.

And when the stars of night began to wane,
And the warm sun had chased away the gloom,
Strange forms were seen around the lattice-pane,
That looked into that dim and dreary room;
And as they crossed the threshold of the door,
They found her drooping by her daughter's bed,