On Being Told, That I Should Never See my Lost Mother Again


W ERE hope to be no longer mine,
" That Spirits could with Spirits join;
That souls, on earth, to Love endear'd,
In Death had only disappear'd;
But, like the Sun, to rise again ,
With all the virtues in their train; "
Despair would on the bed of Rest
Enfold me in her poison'd vest;
No more I 'd cheapen human breath,
But cherish Life, and flee from Death.
Life can record, and Love can paint,
Their breathing image of the Saint :
Can hear its oracle impart
Relief, and counsel to the heart;
Can feel the hovering Angel's glow,
When Spirits droop, a ray bestow.
But in what page am I to read
The desolated Mourner's Creed,
" That, when the hand of Death can sever
The ties of Love — they part for ever? "
Mine shall be no such Faith as this; —
Mine 's the fond hope of Nature's bliss,
With her , in sight — with her , in speech —
Whom no infirmities could reach,
Whom years forgot, in their delay,
And threw the dart of Time away;
Who as if born for others liv'd;
Nor joy more exquisite receiv'd,
Than to oppose the rising tear,
And waken Hope, or banish Fear.
The Soul is after death to rise;
That Heaven-born Spirit never dies:
The lov'd on earth in Heaven are blest;
For Heaven is joy — it 's more than rest.
Love is the essence of the Soul ;
They are above the Earth's controul;
One common stream from Heaven they bore;
And where is Joy — when Love 's no more?
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