Classic Poem

I.

The wild wind shrieked o'er the dreary moor,
And sang a dirge at the crazied door
Of a hovel bent with age so low,
It seemed a hillock of drifted snow.

Within that hut, by the cheerless hearth,
That once was gladdened with children's mirth,
A desolate mother sat and prest
A famished babe to her faded breast.

With her evening song, so low and deep,
She had lulled her starving boys to sleep,
Did they wander now, in happy dreams,
By the flowery banks of purling streams?

Did they watch the golden fishes play?
Mimic the notes of the bright birds lay,
Or clamber up to the sunny bough,
Where the ripened fruit seemed bending now?

No, no; their visions were all unblest,
For they tost and groaned in sad unrest;
And now there came from that lowly bed
The muttered words of a prayer for bread.

Why did that mother so wildly start,
And press her babe on her aching heart?
That pleading sound, that whispered word,
The inmost depths of her soul had stirred.

A moment passed, and her eyes, so wild,
Were fixed again on her dying child.
Softly she parted its golden hair,
And pressed a kiss on its brow so fair.

Fondly she gazed in the deep-blue eye,
That seemed too bright, too young to die;
Gently the cheeks grew pale and chill —
She felt its heart, but each pulse was still.

And she knew the soul that God had given
Had passed away to its rest in Heaven.

II.

Softly and brightly the sun's glad beam
Came o'er the hill and the ice-bound stream,
And the morning's frosty breath was rife
With the stirring sounds of busy life.

The snow, as fair on the dreary moor
As it came from Heaven the night before,
Was broken now by the father's tread,
As he wended home with his hard-earned bread.

He had labored well, had labored long,
But his soul was brave, his arm was strong;
His heart was cheered by the blessed thought
Of the loved at home, for whom he wrought.

Wearily, slowly, trudged he along,
Singing the tune of a wild old song,
But pondering deep in his heart the while,
His children's joy and his wife's glad smile.

As the hearth was swept, the table spread,
And the platter filled with precious bread,
He saw in fancy the turf-fires's flame,
He heard his prattler lisp his name,

And dreamed of joy till his heart forgot
The toils and cares of the poor man's lot.
Slowly he wended around the hill;
He stood by the door, but all was still.

He raised the latchet and gazed around;
'Twas surely strange that they slept so sound!
There sat his wife, with her baby prest
In quiet sleep on her faded breast.

He spoke; she moved not. He raised her head;
She was cold and pale — his wife was dead.
He did not speak, or move, or start;
Life's tide was frozen around his heart.

His brow grew dark with his soul's despair;
Light, hope, love, joy — all had perished there.
His boys were locked in a fond embrace;
But well he knew by each pallid face,
So quiet now, that the soul had flown.
God! oh, God! he was all alone.

*****

Daughters of Freedom, to you I bring
A sad appeal for the perishing.
Our kindred, neighbors and friends are they
Who are suffering thus, though far away.

Perchance the price of the gem you wear
In your shining braids of silken hair,
Might life, health, strength and joy impart
To a trembling sister's bleeding heart.

The blessed gift ye might soon forget,
But the Lord of all will pay the debt.