Leoline 14
So, not very long thereafter, she took up again life's burden, And went down its rugged pathways, with sad heart and feeble feet;
But she found in holy mother-love a blessing and a guerdon,
Making poverty, long, lonely toil and sore privation sweet.
Daily, nightly, from the attic, where she earned her meagre living,
And where her one dear treasure, like a blossom, lived and throve,
Trembled up the humble incense of her grateful heart's thanksgiving,
To the dear, good God, whose mercy gave her something still to love.
He had learned to lisp that sweetest word of all our Saxon—“Mother,”
And it seemed to gather sweetness from the roses of his mouth,
As birds catch sweeter singing from the voices of each other,
Or as flowers win richer odors from the kisses of the South.
Quickly comes the lore of babyhood, and he had learned already
How to win her fond caresses, by repeating that one word;
While the patter of his little feet, uncertain and unsteady.
Made the sweetest sound of music that her poor heart ever heard.
But he sickened in the winter, sickened suddenly and faded—
Faded when his little, happy life was scarcely two years old;
Drooped upon his mother's bosom, like a blossom too much shaded;
Thus the silent angel found him on the night of which I told.
Slowly through the attic window came the chilly winter morning;
Slowly stirred the city's pulses, down along the frosty air;
But the mother still sat singing by the night-lamp dimly burning,
As though soul and sense were frozen by the torpor of despair.
Up and down went men and women, in their shut hearts ever bearing
Their individual burdens—joy or sorrow, hope or fear;
But in all those busy thousands, drifting, ebbing, flowing, faring,
There was not one heart that trembled with a thought or throb for her.
So the arteries of the city beat, beat all day long around her,
Till the setting sunlight painted crimson bars along the West—
When a neighbor, in chance passing, to her chamber came, and found her—
Found her sitting, stark and silent, with the dead child on her breast.
But she found in holy mother-love a blessing and a guerdon,
Making poverty, long, lonely toil and sore privation sweet.
Daily, nightly, from the attic, where she earned her meagre living,
And where her one dear treasure, like a blossom, lived and throve,
Trembled up the humble incense of her grateful heart's thanksgiving,
To the dear, good God, whose mercy gave her something still to love.
He had learned to lisp that sweetest word of all our Saxon—“Mother,”
And it seemed to gather sweetness from the roses of his mouth,
As birds catch sweeter singing from the voices of each other,
Or as flowers win richer odors from the kisses of the South.
Quickly comes the lore of babyhood, and he had learned already
How to win her fond caresses, by repeating that one word;
While the patter of his little feet, uncertain and unsteady.
Made the sweetest sound of music that her poor heart ever heard.
But he sickened in the winter, sickened suddenly and faded—
Faded when his little, happy life was scarcely two years old;
Drooped upon his mother's bosom, like a blossom too much shaded;
Thus the silent angel found him on the night of which I told.
Slowly through the attic window came the chilly winter morning;
Slowly stirred the city's pulses, down along the frosty air;
But the mother still sat singing by the night-lamp dimly burning,
As though soul and sense were frozen by the torpor of despair.
Up and down went men and women, in their shut hearts ever bearing
Their individual burdens—joy or sorrow, hope or fear;
But in all those busy thousands, drifting, ebbing, flowing, faring,
There was not one heart that trembled with a thought or throb for her.
So the arteries of the city beat, beat all day long around her,
Till the setting sunlight painted crimson bars along the West—
When a neighbor, in chance passing, to her chamber came, and found her—
Found her sitting, stark and silent, with the dead child on her breast.
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