Poems (Acton)/Tears of Bitterness
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.
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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 careMay 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.