Poems (Acton)/Tears of Bitterness

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4625067Poems — Tears of BitternessHarriet Acton and Rose Acton
TEARS OF BITTERNESS. ——
A father's tears were falling fast
On a young though faded brow;
They were falling bitterly, for hope
Had passed for ever now.

Yet the 'reft parent bent the knee,
With prayers for mercy still,
Mingled with murmurs, that his child
Bent to a holier will.

But the hand of Death was on it,
And the fading breath was hushed;
And the mourner of the sainted one
Lay, by that last blow, crushed.

He had so twined within his soul
That frail and withered flow'r,
It seemed he could not tear it thence,
And live through that dark hour.

And truly was the angel-boy
Meet shrine for parent's love;
He had had early visions
Of that happier realm above.

And calmly, as his life had passed,
Passed forth his spirit bright;
And the child awoke to rapture's day,
And the man to sorrow's night.

****

Still seemed it as a dream, until
The grass grew o'er the dead,
And the flowers he had cherished
Waved gently o'er his head;

For the father's heart still, still it clung
To the grave of all his joy:
The brilliant future of his hopes
Lay with his fair-haired boy.

And he thought the tears which ever dewed
That tomb of loveliness,
Had, far beyond all other tears,
Of a stern world's bitterness.

But years have passed; and, passing, can
Bring balm to blighted hearts;
And the parent's grief—like morning mists
Before the sun—departs.

He has started from his woe to feel
Again love's joys and fears,
And paused upon his lonely path
Through this dark vale of tears;

To circle, with his time-chilled hopes,
Another spirit bright;
To welcome to his darkened soul
Once more a ray of light.

Aye, once again young footsteps ring
In the deserted halls;
And the shadow of a fair young form
On each gloomy spot there falls.

More years have passed, and that laugh of mirth
Hath changed in its glad tone;
In childhood's hour we must seek to list
To the careless laugh alone.

'Tis manhood: and that laugh but wakes
In scorn of guiding age,
Mocking the hand that pointeth out
Fate's darkly-written page—

And then that parent stands bereft
Of the heart's peace and pride;
Made desolate on earth by one,
Best loved of all beside!

Left to watch o'er the fallen shrine,
By Guilt's red hand laid low,
To pass alone again upon
His weary way of woe.

To see the young heart turned to sin,
The young brow seared by shame;
To know that justice dares not breathe
The so-long-honoured name:

Left to lay all of hope within
A lone and guilt-made grave;
Where e'en earth's blossoms droop, as o'er
A felon form they wave.

It seemed as if he had but lived
And loved to learn of woe;
How wild the doom which man would call
His happiness below!

How oft the frowns on fortune's brow
May be its smiles—and care
May make so dark the soul at last,
That e'en past gloom seems fair!

And how there may be solace found
For the 'reft heart's despair,
When it but mourns one passed to bliss—
One for this earth too fair.

How there may be sad tears for such,
Which time's swift hand can dry;
Unmingled with the bitter drops
Of hopeless misery!

Tears which—the dark hour gone—will flow
Like the untroubled stream,
And gently cease, when that past grief
Is as a sadd'ning dream.
R. A.