Classic Poem

An aged widow with one only child,
And even he was far away at sea:
Narrow and mean the street wherein she dwelt,
And low and small the room; but still it had
A look of comfort; on the white-wash'd walls
Were ranged her many ocean-treasures—shells,
Some like the snow, and some pink, with a blush
Caught from the sunset on the waters,—plumes
From the bright pinions of the Indian birds,—
Long dark sea-weeds, and black and crimson berries,
Were treasured with the treasuring of the heart.
Her sailor brought them, when from his first voyage
He came so sunburnt and so tall, she scarce
Knew her fair stripling in that manly youth.
Like a memorial of far better days,
The large old Bible, with its silver clasps,
Lay on the table; and a fragrant air
Came from the window: there stood a rose-tree—
Lonely, but of luxuriant growth, and rich
With thousand buds and beautifully blown flowers:
It was a slip from that which grew beside
The cottage, once her own, which ever drew
Praise from each passer down the shadowy lane
Where her home stood—the home where yet she thought
To end her days in peace: that was the hope
That made life pleasant, and it had been fed
By the so ardent spirits of her boy,
Who said that God would bless the efforts made
For his old mother.—Like a holiday
Each Sunday came, for then her patient way
She took to the white church of her own village,
A long five miles and many marvell'd, one
So aged, so feeble, still should seek that church.
They knew not how delicious the fresh air,
How fair the green leaves and the fields, how glad
The sunshine of the country, to the eyes
That look'd so seldom on them. She would sit
Long after service on a grave, and watch
The cattle as they grazed, the yellow corn,
The lane where yet her home might be; and then
Return with lighten'd heart to her dull street,
Refreshed with hope and pleasant memories,—
Listen with anxious ear to the conch shell
Wherein they say the rolling of the sea
Is heard distinct,—pray for her absent child,
Bless him, then dream of him. . . .

A shout awoke the sleeping town, the night
Rang with the fleet's return and victory!
Men that were slumbering quietly rose up
And join'd the shout: the windows gleamed with lights,
The bells rang forth rejoicingly, the paths
Were fill'd with people: even the lone street,
Where the poor widow dwelt, was roused, and sleep
Was thought upon no more that night. Next day—
A bright and sunny day it was—high flags
Waved from each steeple, and green boughs were hung
In the gay market-place; music was heard,
Bands that struck up in triumph; and the sea
Was cover'd with proud vessels; and the boats
Went to and fro the shore, and waving hands
Beckon'd from crowded decks to the glad strand
Where the wife waited for her husband,—maids
Threw the bright curls back from their glistening eyes
And look'd their best, and as the splashing oar
Brought dear ones to the land, how every voice
Grew musical with happiness! And there
Stood that old widow woman with the rest,
Watching the ship wherein had sail'd her son.
A boat came from that vessel,—heavily
It toil'd upon the waters, and the oars
Were dipp'd in slowly. As it near'd the beach,
A moaning sound came from it, and a groan
Burst from the lips of all the anxious there,
When they look'd on each ghastly countenance;
For that lone boat was fill'd with wounded men,
Bearing them to the hospital,—and then
That aged woman saw her son. She pray'd,
And gain'd her prayer, that she might be his nurse,
And take him home. He lived for many days.
It soothed him so to hear his mother's voice,
To breathe the fragrant air sent from the roses—
The roses that were gather'd one by one
For him by his fond parent nurse; the last
Was placed upon his pillow, and that night,
That very night, he died! And he was laid
In the same churchyard where his father lay,
Through which his mother as a bride had pass'd.
The grave was closed; but still the widow sat
Upon a sod beside, and silently
(Hers was not grief that words had comfort for)
The funeral train pass'd on, and she was left
Alone amid the tombs; but once she look'd
Towards the shadowy lane, then turn'd again,
As desolate and sick at heart, to where
Her help, her hope, her child, lay dead together!
She went home to her lonely room. Next morn
Some enter'd it, and there she sat,
Her white hair hanging o'er the wither'd hands
On which her pale face leant; the Bible lay
Open beside, but blister'd were the leaves
With two or three large tears, which had dried in.
Oh, happy she had not survived her child!
And many pitied her, for she had spent
Her little savings, and she had no friends;
But strangers made her grave in that churchyard,
And where her sailor slept, there slept his mother!