Zinzendorff and Other Poems/The Lost Sister
THE LOST SISTER.
They wak'd me from my sleep, I knew not why,
And bade me haste where a pale midnight lamp
Gleam'd from an inner chamber. There she lay,
With livid brow who yestermorn breath'd forth
Through joyous smiles her superflux of bliss
Into the hearts of others. By her side
Her hoary sire, with speechless horror gaz'd
Upon the stricken idol, all dismay'd
Beneath his God's rebuke. And she who nurs'd
That fair young creature at her gentle breast,
And oft those sunny locks had deck'd with buds
Of rose and jasmine, shuddering wip'd the dews
Which death distils.
The sufferer just had given
Her long farewell, and for the last, last time
Press'd with cold lips his cheek who led so late
Her footsteps to the altar, and receiv'd
In the deep transport of an ardent heart
Her vow of love. And she had softly press'd
That golden circlet with her bloodless hand
Upon his finger, which he kneeling gave
On the bright, bridal morn. So, there she lay
In calm endurance, like the smitten lamb
Wounded in flowery pastures, from whose breast
The dreaded bitterness of death had past.
—But a faint wail disturb'd the silent scene,
And in its nurse's arms, a new-born babe
Was borne in utter helplessness along,
Before that dying eye.
Its gather'd film
Kindled one moment, with a sudden glow
Of tearless agony,—and fearful pangs
Racking the rigid features, told how strong
A mother's love doth root itself. One cry
Of bitter anguish, blent with fervent prayer
Went up to Heaven,—and as its cadence sank,
Her spirit enter'd there.
Morn after morn
Rose and retir'd,—yet still as in a dream
I seem'd to move. The certainty of loss
Fell not at once upon me. Then I wept
As weep the sisterless. For thou wert fled
My only, my belov'd,—my sainted one,
Twin of my spirit! and my number'd days
Must wear the sable of that midnight hour
Which rent thee from me.