Poems (Osgood)/A Mother's Prayer in Illness
A MOTHER'S PRAYER IN ILLNESS.
Yes! take them first, my Father! Let my doves Fold their white wings in Heaven, safe on thy breast, Ere I am call'd away! I dare not leave Their young hearts here, their innocent, thoughtless hearts!Ah! how the shadowy train of future ills Comes sweeping down life's vista as I gaze! My May! my careless, ardent-temper'd May! My frank and frolic child! in whose blue eyes Wi]d joy and passionate wo alternate rise; Whose cheek, the morning in her soul illumes; Whose little loving heart, a word, a glance, Can sway to grief or glee; who leaves her play, And puts up her sweet mouth and dimpled arms, Each moment for a kiss, and softly asks, With her clear, flute-like voice, "Do you love me?" Ah! let me stay! ah! let me still be by, To answer her and meet her warm caress! For I away, how oft in this rough world, That earnest question will be ask'd in vain! How oft that eager, passionate, petted heart, Will shrink abash'd and chill'd, to learn at length The hateful, withering lesson of distrust! Ah! let her nestle still upon this breast, In which each shade, that dims her darling face, Is felt and answer'd, as the lake reflects The clouds that cross yon smiling heaven! and thou— My modest Ellen! tender, thoughtful, true; Thy soul attuned to all sweet harmonies; My pure, proud, noble Ellen! with thy gifts Of genius, grace, and loveliness, half hidden 'Neath the soft veil of innate modesty, How will the world's wild discord reach thy heart To startle and appal! thy generous scorn Of all things base and mean—thy quick, keen taste, Dainty and delicate—thy instinctive fearOf those unworthy of a soul so pure, Thy rare, unchildlike dignity of mien, All—they will all bring pain to thee, my child! And oh! if even their grace and goodness meet Cold looks and careless greetings, how will all The latent evil yet undisciplined In their young, timid souls, forgiveness find? Forgiveness, and forbearance, and soft chidings, Which I—their mother—learn'd of Love to give! Ah! let me stay!—albeit my heart is weary, Weary and worn, tired of its own sad beat, That finds no echo in this busy world Which cannot pause to answer—tired alike Of joy and sorrow—of the day and night! Ah! take them first, my Father! and then me; And for their sakes—for their sweet sakes, my Father! Let me find rest beside them, at thy feet!