Poems (Edwards)/The Dying Boy
THE DYING BOY.
It was the hour of midnight, and the windsHowled through the leafless branches, like the wailOf disembodied spirits; and the cloudsHung 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 outThe wintry winds and the cold driving snowFrom its inmates, sat a watcher pale,Her midnight vigils keeping o'er a boyUpon her breast reclining. His pale cheekAnd paler brow glowed in the flickering light Of the uncertain taper, like a vaseOf polished alabaster. His thin handsWere folded on his bosom, and a smileOft wreathed his wasted lips as if sweet thoughtsOf heavenly beauty were stealing through his soul. Faint and lowThe quick uncertain breath flowed from his breast,Upheaving like the ocean; and his heartThrobbed 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 hoursThat bore him nearer to the gateOf the Heavenly City. Tears,—hot tearsFell on his little bosom from the eyes of herThat all night long had watched him; and the heartOf that mother trembled with a loveAnd fear, by lips unuttered. And each breathOf that fair sleeper, fell upon her soulLike a rich treasure. Oh! the untold grief,The deep and speechless agony that twinesItself within our bosoms, when we feel That one on whom our fondest love is fixed,—One whom our hearts have cherished,—one whose voiceAnd smiles and looks and tones,—whose very selfIs mingled with our being, must lie downIn the cold grave apart from us, and sleepThat 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 theeWith patient resignation. Night and mornAnd busy day passed on, and still the boySlept on his mother's bosom. Evening cameWith its deep stillness, robing all the earthWith a thick veil of mystery. The bright sunHad gone to his calm slumber; and the stars,One after one, stood on the brow of night,In their own glorious beauty. And the moonTrode the blue sky in majesty divine,And spread her silvery beams upon the earthThat lay enveloped in a robe of snow In holy silence sleeping. Still the lamp,With its faint flickering light, burned in the roomOf that deserted watcher, as she satWith her dying boy close to her bosom prest,In deep unuttered sorrow. Soft and slow:He raised his dark fringed eyelids, and looked upAnd smiled upon his mother. He raisedHis tiny arms and clasped them round her neck,And gently whispered, "Mother! sorrow not;For I am going home to the bright landWhere dwell the holy angels. While I sleptSo sweetly on your gentle breast, I dreamedThat I had died and left you, and had passedThrough death's dark waters. And methoughtThat all the blessed saints and angels bright,Came down to meet me; and they took my handAnd led me upward, shouting as they flewUp to the golden city, 'Welcome homeThou child of many sorrows! Welcome home,And live with us forever' And they sangSongs of such heavenly beauty; and their harps Gave out such rich toned music, that I stoodEntranced 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 stoodIn his immediate presence, singing praiseFor my deliverance from this world of woeAnd sorrow and affliction. And I sawMy brother and my sister in the crowd,Near the white throne standing. We shook handsAnd smiled and shouted, and they tuned their harpsAnd 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 methinksI 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 bentHer pale brow upon his little breast,And pressed her trembling hand upon his heart,But it had ceased to beat. His pure soulHad broken through its tenement of clay,And put on life immortal.