Poems (Edwards)/The Dying Boy
THE DYING BOY.
It was the hour of midnight, and the winds
Howled through the leafless branches, like the wail
Of disembodied spirits; and the clouds
Hung dark and heavy o'er the sleeping town,
As if they frowned upon the blackened deeds,
And thoughts impure, and words of vile deceit,
That rose, like a "thick cloud," to Heaven.
In a low room,
Where the broken doors and windows, scarce kept out
The wintry winds and the cold driving snow
From its inmates, sat a watcher pale,
Her midnight vigils keeping o'er a boy
Upon her breast reclining. His pale cheek
And paler brow glowed in the flickering light
Of the uncertain taper, like a vase
Of polished alabaster. His thin hands
Were folded on his bosom, and a smile
Oft wreathed his wasted lips as if sweet thoughts
Of heavenly beauty were stealing through his soul.
Faint and low
The quick uncertain breath flowed from his breast,
Upheaving like the ocean; and his heart
Throbbed quickly, and then stood still a moment,
As if 'twere weary; and the quivering pulse,
In his small arm, beat busily the while,
And seemed to count with joy the passing hours
That bore him nearer to the gate
Of the Heavenly City. Tears,—hot tears
Fell on his little bosom from the eyes of her
That all night long had watched him; and the heart
Of that mother trembled with a love
And fear, by lips unuttered. And each breath
Of that fair sleeper, fell upon her soul
Like a rich treasure. Oh! the untold grief,
The deep and speechless agony that twines
Itself within our bosoms, when we feel
That one on whom our fondest love is fixed,—
One whom our hearts have cherished,—one whose voice
And smiles and looks and tones,—whose very self
Is mingled with our being, must lie down
In the cold grave apart from us, and sleep
That sleep "which knows no waking!"
Great God! thy ways are dark, but thou art just,
These gifts were thine ere they were ours;
Oh give us strength to give them back to thee
With patient resignation.
Night and morn
And busy day passed on, and still the boy
Slept on his mother's bosom. Evening came
With its deep stillness, robing all the earth
With a thick veil of mystery. The bright sun
Had gone to his calm slumber; and the stars,
One after one, stood on the brow of night,
In their own glorious beauty. And the moon
Trode the blue sky in majesty divine,
And spread her silvery beams upon the earth
That lay enveloped in a robe of snow
In holy silence sleeping. Still the lamp,
With its faint flickering light, burned in the room
Of that deserted watcher, as she sat
With her dying boy close to her bosom prest,
In deep unuttered sorrow.
Soft and slow:
He raised his dark fringed eyelids, and looked up
And smiled upon his mother. He raised
His tiny arms and clasped them round her neck,
And gently whispered, "Mother! sorrow not;
For I am going home to the bright land
Where dwell the holy angels. While I slept
So sweetly on your gentle breast, I dreamed
That I had died and left you, and had passed
Through death's dark waters. And methought
That all the blessed saints and angels bright,
Came down to meet me; and they took my hand
And led me upward, shouting as they flew
Up to the golden city, 'Welcome home
Thou child of many sorrows! Welcome home,
And live with us forever' And they sang
Songs of such heavenly beauty; and their harps
Gave out such rich toned music, that I stood
Entranced amid their circle. Then a voice,
Deeper and sweeter than the rest I heard,
Calling me up. It was the King of kings,
The Lord Jehovah sitting on his throne,
Crowned with eternal glory. And I stood
In his immediate presence, singing praise
For my deliverance from this world of woe
And sorrow and affliction. And I saw
My brother and my sister in the crowd,
Near the white throne standing. We shook hands
And smiled and shouted, and they tuned their harps
And passed through the whole band of happy spirits,
And shouted as they flew,
'Our little brother has come home at last.'
Mother dear!
Grieve not at my departure. Even now methinks
I hear them calling. Oh! let me go!
I long to mingle with them. Fare thee well!
And when beside my little grave you stand,
Shed not a tear, your boy will be a seraph in the skies."
The mother bent
Her pale brow upon his little breast,
And pressed her trembling hand upon his heart,
But it had ceased to beat. His pure soul
Had broken through its tenement of clay,
And put on life immortal.
Howled through the leafless branches, like the wail
Of disembodied spirits; and the clouds
Hung dark and heavy o'er the sleeping town,
As if they frowned upon the blackened deeds,
And thoughts impure, and words of vile deceit,
That rose, like a "thick cloud," to Heaven.
In a low room,
Where the broken doors and windows, scarce kept out
The wintry winds and the cold driving snow
From its inmates, sat a watcher pale,
Her midnight vigils keeping o'er a boy
Upon her breast reclining. His pale cheek
And paler brow glowed in the flickering light
Of the uncertain taper, like a vase
Of polished alabaster. His thin hands
Were folded on his bosom, and a smile
Oft wreathed his wasted lips as if sweet thoughts
Of heavenly beauty were stealing through his soul.
Faint and low
The quick uncertain breath flowed from his breast,
Upheaving like the ocean; and his heart
Throbbed quickly, and then stood still a moment,
As if 'twere weary; and the quivering pulse,
In his small arm, beat busily the while,
And seemed to count with joy the passing hours
That bore him nearer to the gate
Of the Heavenly City. Tears,—hot tears
Fell on his little bosom from the eyes of her
That all night long had watched him; and the heart
Of that mother trembled with a love
And fear, by lips unuttered. And each breath
Of that fair sleeper, fell upon her soul
Like a rich treasure. Oh! the untold grief,
The deep and speechless agony that twines
Itself within our bosoms, when we feel
That one on whom our fondest love is fixed,—
One whom our hearts have cherished,—one whose voice
And smiles and looks and tones,—whose very self
Is mingled with our being, must lie down
In the cold grave apart from us, and sleep
That sleep "which knows no waking!"
Great God! thy ways are dark, but thou art just,
These gifts were thine ere they were ours;
Oh give us strength to give them back to thee
With patient resignation.
Night and morn
And busy day passed on, and still the boy
Slept on his mother's bosom. Evening came
With its deep stillness, robing all the earth
With a thick veil of mystery. The bright sun
Had gone to his calm slumber; and the stars,
One after one, stood on the brow of night,
In their own glorious beauty. And the moon
Trode the blue sky in majesty divine,
And spread her silvery beams upon the earth
That lay enveloped in a robe of snow
In holy silence sleeping. Still the lamp,
With its faint flickering light, burned in the room
Of that deserted watcher, as she sat
With her dying boy close to her bosom prest,
In deep unuttered sorrow.
Soft and slow:
He raised his dark fringed eyelids, and looked up
And smiled upon his mother. He raised
His tiny arms and clasped them round her neck,
And gently whispered, "Mother! sorrow not;
For I am going home to the bright land
Where dwell the holy angels. While I slept
So sweetly on your gentle breast, I dreamed
That I had died and left you, and had passed
Through death's dark waters. And methought
That all the blessed saints and angels bright,
Came down to meet me; and they took my hand
And led me upward, shouting as they flew
Up to the golden city, 'Welcome home
Thou child of many sorrows! Welcome home,
And live with us forever' And they sang
Songs of such heavenly beauty; and their harps
Gave out such rich toned music, that I stood
Entranced amid their circle. Then a voice,
Deeper and sweeter than the rest I heard,
Calling me up. It was the King of kings,
The Lord Jehovah sitting on his throne,
Crowned with eternal glory. And I stood
In his immediate presence, singing praise
For my deliverance from this world of woe
And sorrow and affliction. And I saw
My brother and my sister in the crowd,
Near the white throne standing. We shook hands
And smiled and shouted, and they tuned their harps
And passed through the whole band of happy spirits,
And shouted as they flew,
'Our little brother has come home at last.'
Mother dear!
Grieve not at my departure. Even now methinks
I hear them calling. Oh! let me go!
I long to mingle with them. Fare thee well!
And when beside my little grave you stand,
Shed not a tear, your boy will be a seraph in the skies."
The mother bent
Her pale brow upon his little breast,
And pressed her trembling hand upon his heart,
But it had ceased to beat. His pure soul
Had broken through its tenement of clay,
And put on life immortal.