Classic Poem

I SIT in my still room,
And gentle noises, music-fraught, steal through
My spacious window. The soft morning wind
Rustles the oak-leaves, and the gay birds sing
Among the hickory-boughs. The kine go forth
Contented lowing to the shady wood.
The generous wild-flowers ope their fragrant cups
Brimming with dew, and busy insects sip,
Humming, the delicate nectar. All the earth
Rejoices in awakening, but I bow
My weary head, and blistering tear-drops blind
My sight from the fair picture.

I was wont
To hear, with humming bees and singing birds,
A voice whose tones were sweeter far to me
Than all earth's melodies. First in early morn
The patter of his little dimpled feet
Along the gallery-floor, and his glad shout
Of merry glee as he his sister chased
With tiny whip upraised, or frolicked wild
Beside his baby-brother, filled my heart
With a deep, holy thankfulness and joy
That none but mothers know.
All gentle things
Were teachers and playfellows unto him.
In the glad spring-time he would sit for hours
Beneath the tulip-trees and watch the wren
Building her tiny nest, or try his skill
To mimic the quaint mocking-bird, whose song
Held his young spirit spellbound. In the cart
Homely and rude, it was his highest pride
To ride far down into the hollows green
And gather berries to bring home to me;
And then, with earnest look, inquire if God
Had berries and a waggon in the sky?
Oh, well do I remember how he came
But a few days before that fever wild
Fell on him, and with sober sweetness asked,
" Mamma, when will God come? " I little dreamed,
As gently, with my heart hushed low in prayer,
I told him that we must be pure and good
If we would go to play on golden harps
With God's good angels — music filled his heart
With pathos deep and strange — I little dreamed
The radiant convoy would descend so soon
From their bright dwelling-place to bear him back.

Heart-broken, and with wild and aching brain
I watched his rounded limbs attenuate grow
Through those long days of anguish. I beheld
The strange, bright wandering of his large blue eyes,
And heard his sweet voice murmuring low, as though
To unseen spirits. Up to God in prayer
My spirit went for strength — for strength to bear
This riving of the first bright golden link
From out my chain of gems; this sudden snap
Of one sweet string from my life's chiming harp,
Erst in such perfect tune.

Those starry eyes
Beaming with health a few brief days before,
Grew dimmer as the death-dew gathered thick
About his lips, and in low, tremulous tones
He sang, " O Lamb of God! " our evening hymn,
Its simple tune the first his baby-voice
Had learned to sing — and with a long, deep sigh,
He died.

Three years ago, I pressed him close
To my proud, throbbing bosom, and my heart
Brimming with untold joy sent up its thanks
To the kind Giver, for my first-born son.
With my own hands I wrought his garments fair;
Day after day I watched the brightening grace
Of his young intellect, the beauteous growth
Of his symmetric limbs; and in the years
Of the glad future's clear and shining track
I saw him in his perfect manhood stand
My crown of crowns, my life's best blessing. Now
With my own trembling hands I wrought his shroud
And dressed his lifeless body for the grave —
So different from his cushioned, cradled sleep
Upon a bed of down. What wonder, then,
When the glad morning's many voices float
O'er the awakened earth, and singing winds
Chant through the casement, that I sit and weep
For the soft key-note hushed?

I see the wren
He watched in spring-time as she built her nest
Teaching her young ones now to try their wings
In the clear waves of air, and to my heart
It teaches a sweet lesson: that my child
On tireless pinions cleaves the cloudless air
Of an eternal heaven, untossed by storms,
Undarkened e'er by tempests, and secure
From the dread fowler's arrows.

Bleating herds
He used to follow to the wood's deep shade,
I see returning to the river's banks
To browse along its margin, and I think
Of my fair boy by the good Shepherd led
Beside still waters, or reclining safe
On His protecting bosom in the green
And everlasting pastures. Full of peace
The song they sing to me, these innocent things.
The Hand that guides them all, will lead me too,
Though rough the road, and stormy be the skies,
To the calm shelter of my child at last.