Classic Poem

I saw a youthful mother lie
Upon the bed of death.
No bitter tears bedimmed her eye
Though parents, spouse, and friends were nigh,
Expecting her last breath.

And when a little daughter came
To see her mother dear,
She did not call her child by name,
But, quite composed, appeared the same
As if she were not near.

I asked myself what made her act
In this way to her kin?
Was her poor frame with torture racked,
Or was it consciousness she lacked,
Or dreadful fears within?

I well divine 'twas none of these
Concerned this mother's mind.
'Tis true her cough gave her no ease,
That she was sinking from disease,
And was to all resigned.

O, was it the dear Saviour's call
That she was listening to?
It was, and rapture filled her soul,
Feeling content to leave them all,
With heaven in her view.

And then, by some strong impulse led,
She wished us next to sing.
We sang the praise of him who bled
On Calvary in the sinner's stead,
That he to us might bring

Salvation from both sin and hell,
A song she much admitted,
And one on which she loved to dwell;
One suited to her case so well
That of true joy inspired.

And oh, methought were she but strong,
She would have raised her voice
To join us in that pleasing song,
And let it waft her soul along
To Him who was her choice.

Yet doubtless then her spirit sung,
Yea joined us too in prayer;
And now her golden harp is strung
Which will ne'er be 'on willows hung,'
In weakness or despair.