Poems (Cook)/My Own

by Eliza Cook

MY OWN.

"My own, my own"—oh! who shall dare
 To set this seal of claim on earth;
When "chance and change" are everywhere,
 On all and each of human birth?

"My own, my own"—these words are breathed
 By the young mother o'er her child;
Her hope and joy about it wreathed,
 Like moss to wood flower—warm and wild.

"My own, my own"—so gently sighs
 The doting lover to his bride,
Finding his sunshine in her eyes,
 His world of Pleasure by her side.

"My own, my own"—so gaily sings
 The merchant with exulting lip;
While the strong, Eastern pinion brings
 The heavy freight and gallant ship.

"My own, my own"—the miser cries,
 O'er tarnish'd dross and parchment fold;
Chain'd where his cumbrous coffer lies,
 With hand all close, and heart all cold.

"My own, my own"—the poet one
 Thus fondly hails his minstrel power;
While dreaming in the summer sun,
 Or musing in the moonlight hour.

"My own, my own"—the fair girl says,
 Noting her beauty, young and bright;
Smoothing her ringlet as it strays
 Upon her cheek, with proud delight.

"My own, my own"—these words resound
 Distinctly through the Babel noise;
From Kings with mighty nations round,
 And infants o'er their gather'd toys.

"My own, my own"—ay, thus we boast—
 Short-sighted worshippers of clay;
Yet where's the heart that holds no ghost
 Of treasures lent and snatch'd away?

Who has not stood beneath Life's tree,
 Rapt by some song-bird, perching nigh;
And when the music seem'd to be
 The sweetest, seen the warbler fly?

Who has not planted some fair shoot,
 Nursing it as the garden gem;
And seen foul canker sap its root,
 Or rushing storm-wind snap the stem?

Do we not meet hard blows, that fall
 Upon the pile deem'd most secure?
Do we not grieve the strokes that leave
 The poet mad—the rich man poor?

Do we not see deep love estranged—
 Thrust from the heart it held so dear;
And all the dazzling garlands changed
 For willow-branches, dead and scar?

Do we not see the pest-worm steal
 The rose of Beauty to destroy?
Does not the frantic mother kneel
 Beside her "own," her coffin'd boy?

"My own, my own"—oh, cheating speech,
 How soon its falsehood smites the breast!
What monitors come nigh to teach
 Man to be humble while he's blest!

Who shall presume with boasting hand
 To trace such words on aught below!
It is but writing on the sand,
 Where troubled waters ebb and flow.

Our "talents" are but held in trust,
 Grasp them as closely as we will;
And draughts that swim with highest brim,
 The lightest touch will serve to spill.

"My own, my own"—oh! who shall dare
 Thus to defy Pain, Woe, and Strife;
When chance and change are everywhere,
 And Death walks hand-in-hand with Life?