Poems Sigourney 1834/The Last Word of the Dying
THE LAST WORD OF THE DYING.
A christian friend, in the last moments of life, when it was supposed all communication with mortals had ceased—spelt, with her fingers, in the dialect of the deaf and dumb, the word—"Mother."
'Tis o'er!—'Tis o'er!
That lip of gentle tone
Doth speak to man no more;
It hath given the parting kiss
To him with whom was learned to prove
The climax of terrestial bliss,
Deep, and confiding love;
It hath sighed its last bequest
On the weeping sister's breast,
Its work is done.
The soul doth wait for thee,
Redeemer!—strong to save
Thy ransomed from the grave,
It waiteth to be free.
Still, on the darkened eye
It lingereth, wishful to convey
One message more, to frail mortality,
Then soar away.
There is no breath to speak,
No life-blood in the cheek,
Listening Love doth strive in vain
Those pearls of thought to gain,
Which on its upward track
Thus from Heaven's threshold bright, the spirit throweth back.
But with remembered skill
The hand interprets still,
Though speech with broken lyre is faithless to the will,
Those poor, pale fingers weave with majestic art,
One last, lone thrilling word to echo through the heart.
"Mother."
Oh! yet a moment stay,
Friend!—Friend!—what would'st thou say?
What strong emotion with that word doth twine!
She, whose soft hand did dry thine infant tear,
Hovereth she now, with love divine
Thy dying pillow near?
And is the import of thy sign
That she is here?
Faithful to thine extremest need
Descends she from her blissful sphere,
With the soft welcome of an angel's reed
Thy passage through the shadowy vale to cheer?
Or doth affection's root
So to earth's soil adhere—
That thou, in fond pursuit,
Still turn'st to idols dear?
Drawest thou the curtain from a cherished scene
Once more with yearning to survey
The little student over his book serene,
The glad one at his play,
The blooming babe so lately on thy breast
Cradled to rest—
Those three fair boys,
Lingers thy soul with them, even from heaven's perfect joys?
Say—wouldst thou teach us thus, how strong a mother's tie?
That when all others fade away,
Stricken down in mouldering clay,
Springs up with agonizing hold, on vast eternity?
Fain would we hear thee tell,
But ah!—the closing eye,
The fluttering, moaning sigh,
Speak forth the disembodied friend's farewell,
We toil to break the seal, with fruitless pain,
Time's fellowship is riven:—earth's question is in vain.
Yet we shall know
Thy mistery—thou who unexplained hast fled
Where secret things are read,
We after thee shall go
In the same path of woe
Down to the dead.
Oh Christ!—whose changeless trust
Went with her to the dust,
Whose spirit free,
Did shield her from the victor's power,
Suffer us not, in Death's dread hour
To fall from Thee.