Poems (Welby)/The Dying Girl

by Amelia Welby

For works with similar titles, see The Dying Girl.

THE DYING GIRL.

The fitful breeze, that, through the sultry day,
Had fanned the fainting blossoms with its breath,
Stole through the open lattice, where there lay
A pale young girl upon the couch of death;
Her glance was fixed upon the moon, that rolled
Through blue and starlight in the vaulted sky,
As if she knew her fleeting hours were told,
And wished to take one lingering look and die.

Beside that humble couch, there dropped one form,
The gentle mother of the dying one,
For grief had bowed her spirit, as the storm
Bends the soft rose upon its emerald throne;
There lay her child, the beautiful, the young,
The breath just sighing on her lip of snow,
And her soft ringlets, all disheveled, flung
Back from the whiteness of her deathly brow.

Sadly she bent above her; though her look
Was tearless as she sought her daughter's eye,
Yet her lip quivered like a bright leaf, shook
By the strong tempest as it sweeps the sky;
"Daughter!" she murmured, and the maiden turned
Unto her mother's face her mournful glance,
In which life's flickering taper wildly burned,
For she was startled as if from a trance.

And, at that voice so thrilling to her ear,
A thousand tender thoughts her heart opprest,
Till to her blue eye tear-drop followed tear,
And the white linen heaved above her breast;
About her mother's neck she softly threw
Her pale thin arms, nestling her young head
Within her sheltering bosom, dashed the dew
From her soft cheek, and in low accents said—

  Mother, my hour is come,
The wing of death is o'er me, for my brow
Is damp and chill—sweet mother, I must go
  Down to the silent tomb.

  Yet not for this I grieve;
It is to think that I am leaving thee
Poor and unfriended—mother, thou wilt be
  Alone at morn and eve.

  And through the long, long day,
Thou 'It sit with breaking heart above thy task,
Earning thy daily bread, while others bask
  In fortune's sunny ray.

  For on thy heart will press
A thousand memories of thy buried child,
And thou wilt pour thy weepings long and wild,
  In utter loneliness.

  And, in the time of sleep,
Thou'lt turn to kiss me as thou oft hast done,
But memory will whisper "she is gone,"
  And thou wilt wake and weep.

  Before my father died,
We dwelt beneath our own bright stately halls,
Round which blue streams and silver fountain- falls
  Were seen to glide.

  There, on the evening breeze
In summer-time, no harsher sound was heard
Than the low flutter of some singing bird,
  Startled among the trees.

  And there, beside our hearth,
Thou 'st often knelt and offered up to God
My infant spirit, pure as snow untrod,
  And free from taint of earth.

  But now, how changed thy lot!
Strangers are dwelling in our once bright home,
While thou art pent within this close dark room,
  Unaided and forgot.

  I have been like a spell,
Binding thee unto earth, but death hath prest
His cold and heavy hand upon my breast—
  Mother, I go—farewell!

Slowly her arms unwound their wreathing clasp
Around her mother's neck, and her fair head
Fell heavy back, while a low lengthened gasp
Stirred her cold marble bosom—she was dead.
Silent that mother gazed, the mighty flood
Of grief within her breast she strove to hide,
For it seemed sin to weep, while thus she stood
Above the holy dead, the sanctified.

It was no time to mourn, for she had vet
A bitter mournful duty to fulfil,
To press the eyelids o'er the blue orbs set,
To close the sweet lips smiling on her still;
She laid the ringlets round the lifeless face,
And wrapped the loose shroud round the slender form,
That lay in mute and melancholy grace
As if spell-bound in slumber soft and warm.

And when the stars of night began to wane,
And the warm sun had chased away the gloom,
Strange forms were seen around the lattice-pane,
That looked into that dim and dreary room;
And as they crossed the threshold of the door,
They found her drooping by her daughter's bed,
Her raven tresses streaming o'er the floor
And her dark glassy eye fixed on the dead.

O! 't was indeed a sadly touching sight,
For her white hand lay pressed upon her heart,
As if to quell within the spirit's might,
And her cold purple lips were half apart:
They raised her from the spot where she had knelt
In the meek attitude of holy prayer,
And with the nicest touch her bosom felt,
Seeking for life and warmth—but death was there!