Poems (Welby)/The Bereaved

by Amelia Welby

THE BEREAVED.

The moon within our casement beams,
 Our blue-eyed babe hath dropt to sleep,
And I have left it to its dreams,
 Amid the shadows deep,
To muse beside the silver tide,
Whose waves are rippling at thy side.

It is a still and lovely spot,
 Where they have laid thee down to rest,
The white rose and forget-me-not
 Bloom sweetly o'er thy breast,
And birds, and streams with liquid lull
Have made the stillness beautiful.

And softly through the forest-bars
 Light, lovely shapes, on glossy plumes,
Float ever in, like winged stars,
 Amid the purpling glooms;
Their sweet songs borne from tree to tree,
Thrill the light leaves with melody.

Alas! the very path I trace,
 In happier hours, thy footsteps made;
This spot was once thy resting-place,
 Within the silent shade;
Thy white hand trained the fragrant bough
That drops its blossoms o'er me now;

'T was here at eve we used to rove,
 'T was here I breathed my whispered vows,
And sealed them on thy lips, my love!
 Beneath the apple-boughs.
Our hearts had melted into one,
But Death undid what Love had done.

Alas! too deep a weight of thought
 Had filled thy heart in youth's sweet hour;
It seemed with love and bliss o'erfraught,
 A fleeting passion-flower,
Unfolding 'neath a southern sky
To blossom soon, and soon to die.

Yet, in those calm and blooming bowers
 I seem to feel thy presence still,
Thy breath seems floating o'er the flowers,
 Thy whisper on the hill;
The clear, faint starlight, and the sea,
Are whispering to my heart of thee.

No more thy smiles my heart rejoice,
 Yet still I start to meet thine eye,
And call upon the low, sweet voice,
 That gives me no reply—
And list within my silent door
For the light feet, that come no more.