TO A LADY, ON THE DEATH OF HER MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. SARA, so let me call thee, since that name And for a mother that is now no more, Long time it seems since thou and I have spoke It wot not of its presence ;-lake once proud Floating above in smallest skiff of heaven,— So shy, he would and yet would not be seen. Those times are past,—and I have known thee tamed To sober womanhood and matron grave, Yet like the ever-glad Hesperian tree, Whose summer fruitage gleams through vernal flowers; For two pure souls removed, so like each other, Of thy sweet Katherine's little life, shall bloom ON THE DEATH OF THOMAS JACKSON, LATE OF LOW WOOD INN, WHO DIED BY A FALL FROM AN APPLE TREE. THERE is the lake and there the quiet hills, Nor sign would see of widow's grief that kills The last time I beheld thee, lovely lake, Thou wert composed in that expectant calm, Which any sigh of love-sick maid might shake, Or dying close of penitential psalm. I thought of Death. Who doth not think of Death? And felt how sweet a boon that death might be, Were it indeed a calm to feel the breath Whene'er it came of stirring Deity. I thought of Death. But did not think how near And even so we thought his honest face But he is gone, the form we long have seen, The lake is there, the hills their distance keep, The tall trees stand as if they mourned for ever, But leave the widowed house alone to weep, Nor seek the widowed heart from grief to sever. For he is gone that was to us a smile, An honest face to welcome when he came ; Short was the time, but yet a weary while When Death was struggling with the shattered frame. And many thoughts he had, as may be guessed, And shows of earth that with the vision blended; Shows that at times perplexed, but later blessed The spirit equipped just ere the strife was ended. Perhaps the latest object to employ His parting thought upon the death-bed pillow, Was the dear image of his orphan boy, With small foot challenging the frisky billow. Whatever sight or sound possessed him last, Yes, all was well, for 'twas the will of Him, And now amid the smiling cherubim, Beholds the tears of them he bad to weep. False is the creed, because the heart is dead, That blames the widow's or the orphan's tear; Eyes that beheld the Lord full oft were red With human sorrow while they tarried here. |