Poems (Rice)/A Lament
For works with similar titles, see A Lament.
A LAMENT.
ANOTHER year has sped, A year of pain and dread, And yet no tidings from my absent one; None yet has come to me Across the moaning sea; No word, alas, from him, my wandering son.
To celebrate his birth To-day no joy, no mirth; His name no one will think but me to call, Or wonder why I sigh When merry ones are nigh; They think this day should pleasure bring to all.
How sweet were then my dreams; But yesterday it seems Since first his head was pillowed on my breast; O then I breathed a prayer Upon his forehead fair, And thought no head was ever half so blest.
Each ruddy lad I see, I think it may be he, If near his age, in every walk I take; If dark brown eye and hair, I am trying to compare Their features—scan till I a likeness make.
Perchance some gentle hand In that bright golden land, Which has allured—has tempted scores to stray, May kindly lead him right, May to their homes invite; For this do I, how often, do I pray.
How much he must be grown; Two years 'tis hard to own, And could I own, where should I learn, O where? Who'd sympathy bestow To lighten this my woe, Or counsel me in griefs they cannot share?
Another year, I may Sit then, as now to-day, My hopes all crushed, and health may distant be, And friends may talk and smile, In vain try to beguile; Alas, my boy I never more may see.
Yet I would not rebel, Would not my sorrows tell; 'Tis but a leaf torn from the volume great; Many a mother may, With longings deep to-day, Hope for the news which I myself now wait.
Sighing is all in vain; Great Father! O sustain! I sometimes think I never could bear more; Yet when with Thee I plead, How gently dost Thou lead Me in sweet paths I never trod before.