Classic Poem

Who is that mourner bending o'er yon grave,
Whose glistening tears flow down her pallid cheek,
Whose voice, like cooing dove's,
Is full of plaintive woe?

A mother, weeping for her infant dear, —
A smiling babe, who, like the early flower,
Just blossomed for a day,
And then was seen no more.

See how her tears bedew that verdant grave,
And on that slowly-waving blade of grass,
Mark how that crystal drop
Shines in the moon's pale beam.

Ah! listen to her softly uttered tale,
Which, touching all the chords of sympathy,
Bids the unsullied tear
Stand in the stranger's eye.

" Ah! lovely babe, sweet image of thy sire,
Who in the stormy bosom of the deep,
Ere thou hadst seen the light,
Found his cold, watery grave:

" I fondly hoped to rear thy angel form,
To make thee first and fairest of the fair,
In every virtuous grace,
In every mental charm.

" This cheering thought enlivened all my toil,
This sweetened all my anxious, watchful hours,
When through the wintry night
I hushed thy cries to rest.

" Oft I would look upon thy sleeping form,
And the calm smile that played upon thy lips,
And when I saw thee move,
Would sing my lullaby.

" But cruel death thy opening blossom nipped,
And laid thee low within the silent tomb,
And robbed me of my sole,
My sole surviving joy.

" Ah! can I tell the agony I feel,
The cruel pang that wrung my bleeding heart,
When hollow-sounding clods
Fell in thy narrow grave?

" How pleasing — to behold thy early bloom,
Like morning flowers; but ah! how mournful too —
So sweet to taste of bliss,
So soon to lose its balm!

" Soon I shall leave this tenement of clay,
Soon I shall meet thee and thy much-loved sire,
Above yon starry sky,
In one eternal Heaven.

" For o'er my cheek the lily's hue is spread,
And scarce the pulses beat within my heart,
While death, with awful voice,
Rings loudly in my ear.

" But I can leave this mournful world with joy,
Can view the last recess of parting life,
And feel the icy chill
Creep through my withered veins. "