Poems (Chitwood)/The Mother's Lament

by Mary Louisa Chitwood

For works with similar titles, see The Mother's Lament.

THE MOTHER'S LAMENT.

'Tis o'er; the last faint, faltering breath is o'er
 As the freed dove flies joyous to her nest,
So shall thy struggling spirit pant no more,—
 No more shall pain and suffering touch thy breast.
   For thou art now to rest.

The soul's deep light has faded from thine eye,
 Departed from thy cheek the tint of rose,
Those ruby lips have breathed their last, last sigh,
 And will no more in smiles of love unclose,—
   Sweet be thy deep repose.

Let me still gaze on thee, and in my heart
 Fix thy dear image, ne'er to be erased;
So when of dust those features are a part,
 I may recall the form I here have traced ,—
   The form so oft embraced.

Let me recall it when I gazed, at night,
 On each fair cloud so gently floating by;
Let me recall it in the starry light
 That sweetly glows along the deep blue sky,—
   Then can I call thee nigh.

In the deep midnight hour when all is still,
 Save the low thrillings of the wandering breeze,
That floats in gentle murmurs from the hill,
 And like a harp-string thrills among the trees
   In strange, sad melodies.

And in the morning, when the eastern blue
 Brightens and glows with vivid, golden light;
When the first sunbeam drinks the trembling dew
 Cast in the flower-cups, like some jewel bright,
   By the fair hand of night.

Then, thou beloved, at morning, noon, or night,
 In spring's first glow or in the summer hours,
In autumn's saddening time of frost and blight,
 Or in the stormy winter's gloomy hours,
   Of wind and snowy showers,—

I'll think of thee; thy memory in my heart
 Shall ever find a constant dwelling-place;
And though with thee I must forever part,
 Still will I love thee, and will often trace
   The features of thy face.

And though in after years from out my mind
 Those features, as in death, may fade away,
Yet in my heart thou shalt be e'er enshrined
 Deep, deep and true, when into senseless clay
   Thy loved form shall decay.

Farewell, dear love, now I must give thee up;
 Closed, closed for aye the coffin-lid must be;
Yes, I, alas, must drain the bitter cup,
 I shall no more those lovely features see,—
   The grave must close o'er thee,

It must, it must be so; for, dear one; now
 I gaze on thee in death's long slumber deep,
Look for the last time on thy peaceful brow;
 Farewell! farewell! Death will his vigil keep.
   Sweet be thy blessed sleep.

'Tis o'er at last; I heard the rattling clod
 Fall with a muffled sound above thy breast;
But, Oh, I feel, that though beneath the sod
 Thy form is placed, yet still thou art at rest
   Amid the angels blessed.