Poems (Dodd)/The Broken Hearted
For works with similar titles, see The Broken-Hearted.
THE BROKEN-HEARTED.
I would not stay forever here, In this sad world of care and pain;I would not have life linger on, Or give my thoughts to earth again;I long to close my tearful eyes, And rest my weary, aching headUpon the couch where all is peace And stillness, with the early dead.
I do not fear to look on death, From whose approach no power can save;No serpent-sting is in his grasp, Nor disappointment-in the grave.How sweet to sleep on some green bank, Where summer breezes gently blow;The pure and glad blue sky above, The silver-singing wave below.
I would not have my humble name In costly marble sculptured deep;No darkening yew should spread its gloom, Nor o'er my head the willow weep: But insect hum, and voice of bird Should float upon the balmy air;The happy would not turn away While cheerful sights and sounds were there.
And if some gentle step should come With blossoms in the morning hours,O, welcome would the offering be, For I have dearly loved the flowers!Perchance my spirit, freed from pain, Might linger round the verdant tomb,To bless the loving hand that gave, And borrow pleasure from their bloom.
To-morrow, and the setting sun Its shadows round my rest will cast;I shall not watch the fading light, On tree and flower I look my last;And on those orbs of purest gold, So thickly strewn in yonder sky,With the fair goddess of the night Walking in loveliness on high.
Long have those bright, mysterious stars Their silent watch o'er sorrow kept, And the pale moon looked calmly down, As if she saw no eyes that wept;There tracing still her radiant path, Far out upon the spotless blue,Why may not love thus steady burn? Why cannot friends be always true?
Still will they shine, when I am gone, As they have ever shone before;And weary eyes will meet their beams, When I shall wake to weep no more.O, beautiful upon the grave, The starlight and the moonbeams lie!With such sweet watchers o'er our sleep, Why should we ever fear to die?
A weight is on my closing lids, The dews are gathering on my brow,And, with the shade of vanished years, Fond memory holds communion now;Inwove with many a darkening thread The texture of my life appears;How vain were all its sweetest hopes, How more than bitter were its tears!
I strive to imitate His love, Which every cruel wrong forgave,Till o'er my tried and suffering soul Peace, like a river, rolls its wave.O! surely, in that better land, No vulture shall the dove molest,Or worm devour the rose's heart, Take me, my Father, to its rest!