Poems (Eliza Gabriella Lewis)/To Mary

by Eliza Gabriella Lewis

For works with similar titles, see To Mary.

TO MARY.

Come, my sweet one, 'tis thy slumbering hour;
With clasped hands bend humbly to that Power—
The Giver of all good, all joy to thee:
Who, my young child, can that kind influence be?

Mother, I look on the glowing sky,—
On the bright stream that bubbles and gushes by;
On the earth, with its beautiful flowers and trees,
And I hear sweet music upon the breeze!
The birds have a voice of song and glee,
But the Power you speak off I cannot see!
Is He on earth, 'mid the flowers so sweet?
Mother, his foosteps may I meet,
And thank Him for all His love to me?
Oh! mother, why look you so mournfully?

My gentle one:—when your young bird died,
Remember how sadly you sobb'd and cried?
When its notes were mute, nor answered your glee,
Look'd you not then most mournfully?

With a mother's anxious grief I wept,
To think that, perhaps, while my lov'd one slept,
Her spirit might pass to that heaven above,
Where dwelleth in glory the Power of Love;
But not till you pass through the shades of death,
And I feel no more your gentle breath
On my cheek—soft, glowing and warm, my child,
And miss your sweet looks and accents mild,—
Not till then may you meet with that holy Power,
And I wept to think of our parting hour.