Classic Poem

BY MARY D. LEE .

There was a hush of silence! — the lone room
Was darken'd to a soft and dreamy light;
The morning beam look'd in, yet seem'd to shun
A spot so chill and noiseless: the Spring gale
Breath'd, as it pour'd its wealth of gather'd sweets,
A low and thrilling music; and the flowers,
Fresh from Earth's sunny pastures, bloom'd around,
And shed a balmy fragrance o'er the scene.
The dead was there! not in the sable pall
And stern and rigid aspect, that would haunt
In after-days the living , but the dead
So altogether lovely, that it seem'd
Clad in its spotless robes, as if just deck'd
To be the bride of Heaven. Time had trac'd
No line upon her brow, and Death stood by
With weak and nerveless arm, as if he fear'd
To mar a thing so perfect. There she lay —
She of the glossy locks and pate-rose cheek,
With lips half clos'd, and eyelids softly seal'd,
Like one, who in some blissful vision hears
A strain of seraph music, On her breast
Her hands were meekly folded, while beneath,
The heart lay still, as if it joy'd to know
Its labours all were o'er.
A faltering step is heard; and with his frame
Tottering 'neath-weight of days, comes slowly on,
Leaning upon his staff, a dark-brow'd man,
Who counted more than fourscore years on earth.
Mysterious thoughts weigh on him; and he moves
With wondering gaze, a trembling, awe struck one,
Towards that fragile being. They had sought
By gestures strong and oft-repeated words,
To nerve him for the conflict; yet in vain —
In vain! For to his lock'd and prison'd mind
The silvery key is broken; age hath cast
A mildew o'er his senses. There he stands
As if entranc'd. Towards the flowers he turns;
And now strong sympathies are waking up
In his benighted bosom. He it was,
That long had rear'd and cherish'd them with care,
And hail'd the gladdening sunbeam, and the shower
That added to their beauty and their bloom.
And now he passes on with stealthy tread,
To gaze on that fair being, who was wont
To bid him always welcome; and did look
So graceful and behign, when with meek smile
He tender'd the young blossoms, deeming well
That they shone brighter in her fairy hand.
He gazes on her with a vacant eye;
Until at last the startling truth comes home
To his bewilder'd bosom; then with brow
Knit to a fearful sternness, and his breast
Heaving and stirr'd with agony of thought,
He kneels in speechless wo, and seems to doubt
The hand that could have pluck'd a flower so bright
From Love's most cherish'd bower. Now 't is past.
The fever-dream is gone! — he breathes again —
Each chilling doubt has vanish'd; and a beam
Of Faith lights up the darkness of his soul.
He lifts his arms to Heaven, and kindling prayer
Lends a pure lustre to his ebon brow;
Then humbly bows before her , as if mov'd
To do the pale dust homage; then with look
More eloquent than words, he turns away;
And leaves the peaceful sleeper with her God.