Poems (Douglas)/The Memorial Pebbles
The Memorial Pebbles.
ADDRESSED TO MR. JAMES MURRAY, ON VIEWING THE GRAVE OF HIS LAMENTED WIFE IN THE OLD CHURCH-YARD, AYR.
'Tis evening's hour; the sunset's crimson sheen
Falls soft and richly o'er the place of graves;
Above, heaven's canopy smiles all serene,
Whilst scarce a breeze the sacred verdure waves.
The marble tablet o'er the high-born dust,
The lowly sod that wraps more humble clay,
The upright head-stones, with their mossy crust—
All share the glory of departing day.
Falls soft and richly o'er the place of graves;
Above, heaven's canopy smiles all serene,
Whilst scarce a breeze the sacred verdure waves.
The marble tablet o'er the high-born dust,
The lowly sod that wraps more humble clay,
The upright head-stones, with their mossy crust—
All share the glory of departing day.
With footsteps slow, and solemn musing mind,
The lonely regions of the tombs I tread,
The tributes reading which the "left behind"
Rear to the memory of the loved—the dead.
Here Time hath nigh effaced the chisell'd words,
The hands which traced them, too, must long be clay;
And here a newly-lettered slab records
The name and virtues of the passed away.
The lonely regions of the tombs I tread,
The tributes reading which the "left behind"
Rear to the memory of the loved—the dead.
Here Time hath nigh effaced the chisell'd words,
The hands which traced them, too, must long be clay;
And here a newly-lettered slab records
The name and virtues of the passed away.
But what is this which meets my earnest sight—
What tale of orphan anguish here is told?
"My Mother," formed of pebbles pure and white,
A mourning child has traced upon the mould.
"My Mother"—Could ten thousand words express
With deeper pathos, all the heart that bled—
What pure affection, worlds of deep distress,
Live in that tear-set tribute to the dead?
What tale of orphan anguish here is told?
"My Mother," formed of pebbles pure and white,
A mourning child has traced upon the mould.
"My Mother"—Could ten thousand words express
With deeper pathos, all the heart that bled—
What pure affection, worlds of deep distress,
Live in that tear-set tribute to the dead?
How vividly's pourtrayed, by fancy's wand,
The youthful mourner at this task of love;
What bitter tears fall as his trembling hand
The letters trace her pulseless breast above!
"My Mother!"—offering of a bursting heart,
O'er which the dear maternal love held sway:
Who from such sweet memorial could depart,
Nor bear a gush of mournful thought away.
The youthful mourner at this task of love;
What bitter tears fall as his trembling hand
The letters trace her pulseless breast above!
"My Mother!"—offering of a bursting heart,
O'er which the dear maternal love held sway:
Who from such sweet memorial could depart,
Nor bear a gush of mournful thought away.
And who was she, around whose lowly bed
A child's devotion scatters such a spell?
One who all loving and beloved was wed,
And bliss surrounded, bade the world farewell.
One who, in childhood, sported side by side
With a boy play-mate, through green mead and glen,
Who stood in after years the happy bride
Of her companion of that guileless then.
A child's devotion scatters such a spell?
One who all loving and beloved was wed,
And bliss surrounded, bade the world farewell.
One who, in childhood, sported side by side
With a boy play-mate, through green mead and glen,
Who stood in after years the happy bride
Of her companion of that guileless then.
One who, in happy wedlock's sunny days,
By her glad presence cheered the peaceful hearth,—
In every bosom whose endearing ways
Made images of all that's pure have birth.
Love's own sweet sanctuary was her home;
Her little ones, a band all life and joy;
Whilst hope gave promise of long years to come,
Fraught with each earthly bliss without alloy.
By her glad presence cheered the peaceful hearth,—
In every bosom whose endearing ways
Made images of all that's pure have birth.
Love's own sweet sanctuary was her home;
Her little ones, a band all life and joy;
Whilst hope gave promise of long years to come,
Fraught with each earthly bliss without alloy.
Alas! how transient all enjoyment here!
How soon a blight came o'er domestic bliss!
Yet 'twas a message from a brighter sphere
Which called her to a happier land than this.
The tender mother and the faithful wife
In meekness bowed her to the will divine:
Then in the darkest moments of her life
In full perfection did each virtue shine.
How soon a blight came o'er domestic bliss!
Yet 'twas a message from a brighter sphere
Which called her to a happier land than this.
The tender mother and the faithful wife
In meekness bowed her to the will divine:
Then in the darkest moments of her life
In full perfection did each virtue shine.
Affliction drew no murmur from her lip,
When by her couch one form was ever nigh;
Resigned was she death's bitter cup to sip,
Content beneath one tender gaze to die.
In faith she entered death's dark vale obscure—
She knew 'twas from the Cross the shadows fell;
And, in a dying Saviour's love secure,
She bade her loved and all the world farewell.
When by her couch one form was ever nigh;
Resigned was she death's bitter cup to sip,
Content beneath one tender gaze to die.
In faith she entered death's dark vale obscure—
She knew 'twas from the Cross the shadows fell;
And, in a dying Saviour's love secure,
She bade her loved and all the world farewell.
Lovely in life, and lovelier still in death,
She closed her eyes in holy, calm repose,
Leaving her virtue's essence like the breath
That sweetly trembles from the dew-fresh rose.
And oh! what holier words could love dictate,
To mark the spot where rests her gentle head?
Could angels view us from their blest estate,
How truly would it please the sainted dead!
She closed her eyes in holy, calm repose,
Leaving her virtue's essence like the breath
That sweetly trembles from the dew-fresh rose.
And oh! what holier words could love dictate,
To mark the spot where rests her gentle head?
Could angels view us from their blest estate,
How truly would it please the sainted dead!