Poems (Barrett)/The Mournful Mother
The Mournful Mother,(of the dead blind).
Dost thou weep, mournful mother, For thy blind boy in grave? That no more with each other, Sweet counsel ye can have?—That he, left dark by nature, Can never more he led By thee, maternal creature, Along smooth paths instead? That thou canst no more show him The sunshine, by the heat; The river's silver flowing, By murmurs at his feet? The foliage, by its coolness; The roses, by their smell; And all creation's fulness, By Love's invisible? Weepest thou to behold not His meek blind eyes again,—Closed doorways which were folded, And prayed against in vain—And under which, sate smiling The child-mouth evermore, As one who watcheth, wiling The time by, at a door? And weepest thou to feel not His clinging hand on thine— Which now, at dream-time, will not Its cold touch disentwine? And weepest thou still ofter, Oh, never more to mark His low soft words, made softer By speaking in the dark? Weep on, thou mournful mother!
But since to him when living, Thou wert both sun and moon, Look o'er his grave, surviving, From a high sphere alone Sustain that exaltation— Expand that tender light; And hold in mother-passion, Thy Blessed, in thy sight. See how he went out straightway From the dark world he knew,—No twilight in the gateway To mediate 'twixt the two,—Into the sudden glory, Out of the dark he trod, Departing from before thee At once to Light and God!—For the first face, beholding The Christ's in its divine,—For the first place, the golden And tideless hyaline; With trees, at lasting summer, That rock to songful sound, While angels, the new-comer , Wrap a still smile around! Oh, in the blessed psalm now, His happy voice he tries,—Spreading a thicker palm-bough, Than others, o'er his eyes,—Yet still, in all the singing, Thinks haply of thy song Which, in his life's first springing, Sang to him all night long,—And wishes it beside him, With kissing lips that cool And soft did overglide him,— To make the sweetness full. Look up, O mournful mother; Thy blind boy walks in light! Ye wait for one another, Before God's infinite! But thou art now the darkest, Thou mother left below—Thou, the sole blind,—thou markest, Content that it be so;—Until ye two give meeting Where the great Heaven-gate is, And he shall lead thy feet in, As once thou leddest his!Wait on, thou mournful mother.