Poems (Dodd)/The Parents' Lament
THE PARENTS' LAMENT."The shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain."—Young.
Spring is abroad with gifts, the gentle spring; Joy in her step and beauty on her browTokens of promise will her presence bring, The swelling flower-germ and the budding bough.Our bud of promise in the grave is sleeping, And the bright skies above their watch are keeping.
Days pass, and brighter all the landscape grows; The brow is fanned with pure and balmy air,Which all unseen upon its mission goes, Bearing a cloud of incense every where.Alas! the fragrant winds are softly sighing,Where our sweet bud beneath the turf is lying.
Around we gaze, our spirits bathed in gloom, On hill and vale with wondrous beauty rife;The waving trees all sheeted o'er with bloom, While flowers of every hue awake to life,The blossom of our love spring cannot waken;Our fair young flower, God to himself has taken.
The hum of happy bees through ether floats, And birds from southern lands return again,With music gushing from their dulcet throats, And bright wings flashing o'er the flowery plain:The bird of joy for which our souls are yearning,Soars to a clime from whence there's no returning.
Our fond and trusting hearts had never dreamed That death was near, and would so sudden bringThe shroud and pall, for one who ever seemed, Fair as the day, and lovely as the spring.Early the treasure from our sight has vanished,Like summer dew before the sunbeams banished.
Tears flow apace, tears that a record keep, Of pure lips rifled of life's fleeting breath;Of gentle eyes weighed down with leaden sleep, And childhood's merry laughter hushed in death.Thrice have the darlings of our love been takenThrice have we bowed to grief with faith unshaken.
Though, one by one, our idols all depart, And where they smiled pale sorrow comes to dwellYet can the oft tried and the trusting heart, Say with the Shunamite, "yes, it is well."This sweet assurance to our faith is given,Heaven claims its own when earthly ties are riven.