Poems (Welby)/The Dying Mother

by Amelia Welby

THE DYING MOTHER.

On breezy pinion, mournful eve came singing
 Over the silent hills, and to the glades
And violet-beds a stream of odors bringing,
 And waking music in the forest shades;
For 't was the time, when the lone cotter, wending
 His silent way along the footpaths dim,
Sought his loved home, where gentle voices blending
 Sent up the music of an evening hymn.

A lovely length of moonlit waters lightly
 Broke into sudden brightness on the strand,
While through the sky's soft fleecy fret-work brightly
 The stars looked out upon the stilly land;
But sadly 'neath them gleamed two lovely faces,
 (O! fearful things and sad the stars do see,)
For they were strangers roaming through strange places—
 A mother with her boy beside her knee.

Her only shelter was the blue-arched heaven,
 As to her child's she bent her earnest face,
For well she knew another whispering even
 Would find her form a thing for Death's embrace;
And, as she saw the quivering tear-drop springing
 Into his eyes, and heard him ask for bread,
Swift thoughts, like lightning, through her brain went wing.
 And thus she poured them o'er his fair young head.

Boy! I would fain return thy fond caresses.
But I must put thee from my heart away
   On the cold earth to lay;
And though upon thee Hunger harshly presses,
Planting within thee deep its gnawing fangs,
   I cannot stay thy pangs.

For I have wandered till I'm worn and weary,
Seeking a shelter for thy little head,
   Or a spare crust of bread;
But have found none, and now, heart-sick and dreary,
I lay me down beneath the quiet sky
   To bless thee, boy, and die.

It is, alas! a mounful thing to leave thee
In this cold world to thy young thoughts alone;
   For O! when I am gone,
No smiling mother will at eve receive thee,
Bending o'er thy hushed lip and folded eye—
   Alas, that I must die!

But thou wilt think upon the prayer I taught thee,
When life with us flowed smoothly as a song
   Our native hills among,
And how at noon-tide I have often brought thee,
In thy young beauty, to thy father's side,
   With all a mother's pride.

And when for rest thou seek'st the rich man's dwelling,
Should he from his bright mansion bid thee flee,
   Speaking harsh things to thee,
Let not thy heart with dark despair be swelling,
For soft to thee will be the velvet sod,
   If thou wilt trust in God.

And each pale lily, o'er the waters stooping
From its pure alabaster vase will shed
   A gleam about thy head;
And the rich berries in red clusters drooping
From many a bended bough in this dark wood,
   Will be thy fragrant food.

For thou must wander by each low- voiced river,
And school thy timid heart to be alone
   When the night-winds make moan;
And, when the forest leaves above thee shiver,
To calmly lay thee 'neath their solemn shade,
   And not to be afraid.

For He, who, in his glory dwells above thee,
Who tempereth the wind to the shorn lamb,
   With a deep Sabbath calm
Will fill thy heart, and in his mercy love thee,
And on thy weakness bend a pitying eye,
   And in thy need draw nigh.

And now, farewell! the early morn will wake thee
Unto a fearful sight, thy mother, child,
   Dead in a forest-wild;
And sudden sorrow, like a storm will shake thee,
But God will still the tempest in thy breast—
   A blessing on thee rest!