My Mary's words were words of truth; Amid the tears of age and youth Long days, long nights, I ween were pass'd, But to the spot I went at last Where she had breathed farewell!" Methought I saw the phantom stand Fair, fair beneath the evening sky Dearly she loved their arching spread, Around her grave a beauteous fence Smiling like infant innocence Within the gloom of death. Such flowers from bank of mountain brook At eve we wont to bring, When every little mossy nook Betray'd returning spring. Oft had I fix'd the simple wreath Upon her virgin breast; But now such flowers as form'd it breathe Around her bed of rest. Yet all within my silent soul, The air that seem'd so thick and dull For months unto my eye, Ah me! how bright and beautiful A trance of high and solemn bliss The memory of the past return'd 'God's mercy,' to myself I said, To me, sojourning on earth's shade, WILSON. THE WIDOW. AH! who is she that sits and weeps, -Unconscious where its father lies, 'Sweets to the sweet!' the prattler cries: Ah! then she starts, looks up, her eyes o'erflow With all a mother's love, and all a widow's woe. Again she turns away her head, In which at once, with transport wild, And still I find her sitting here, Though dark October frowns on all; The spirits of enjoyments pass'd, She sees, she hears;-ah! then her eyes o'erflow, Not with a mother's love, but with a widow's woe. The peasant dreads the driving storm, Yet pauses as he hastens by, Views the pale ruin of her form, The desolation of her eye, Beholds her babe for shelter creep 'O God!' he sighs, when I am thus laid low, He gently stretches out his arm, And calls the babe in accents mild; Seeks the warm comforts of his cot. He meets his wife;-ah! then his eyes o'erflow; The storm retires;—and hark! the bird, She clasps her babe; she feels her bosom glow, And in the mother's love forgets the widow's woe. Go to thine home, forsaken fair! Loves the dear pledge he left behind; Behold that pledge!-then cease thy tears to flow, And in the mother's love forget the widow's woe. MONTGOMERY. THE WIDOWER. FROM the dwelling of the widower there breathed a hollow moan, To some one he seem'd talking, when I knew he was alone: I listen'd at the lattice of the chamber where he lay, And, 'mid deep sobs of anguish, I plainly heard him say 'Thou livest in my bosom, love! though thou from earth hast fled, And on thy widow'd pillow shall no other lay her head.' Then sighs, that seem'd to rive his heart, his utterance quite drown'd, And on his knees, with vehemence, he dropp'd upon the ground 'Oh, give me strength, great God!' he cried, this misery to bear; Or, with the angel I have lost, take, take me to your care: |