The Bereaved Father

The Bereaved Father

"Not MY will, but THINE."

I had a tender blossom,

Its nursing root was dead,

And in my breast I hid it,

When its angel mother fled!

But at every blast I shudder'd,

And I trembled, day and night,

Lest some unseen destroyer,

My only bud should blight.

Two years of ceaseless care,

Yet of pure and sacred joy,

Brought forth in ruddy health,

My lovely prattling boy,

With the curls around his forehead,

And the lustre in his eye,

And the music on his lip,

Like a song-bird of the sky.

In wakeful hours I mused,

And I wish'd, while others sleep,

That, for his precious sake,

My wealth was broad and deep;

So I forc'd my lingering spirit

For a little while to go,

And gather for my son,

Where the gold and silver grow.

The old nurse loved my blooming boy,

And to her neck he clung,

With his clasping, ivory arms,

And his busy, flattering tongue.

She promised to be faithful,

With a tear upon her cheek,

And I tore myself away,

While he lay in slumber meek.

Both night and day I toil'd,

But my heart was with my child

And on my every labor

Propitious fortune smiled;

Then I homeward set my face,

When the spring flowers 'gan to blow;

Oh! for an eagle's pinion!

The flying car how slow!

I bought the baubles that he loved,

The tiny, gilded drum,

The crimson banner'd host

That to mimic battle come;

The argonautic shells

That sail in pearly fleet,

And in its pretty, garnish'd cage,

The bright-wing'd parroquet.

My trees! - my roof! - I know them well;

Though midnight's veil was drear,

The pale nurse-lamp was flickering

Within the nursery dear;

But a muffled watcher started thence

At my impatient tread,

And there my cherish'd darling lay

On his white mattress bed.

How still! - my God! - Is there no voice?

And has it come to this?

The white lip quivers not

To my impassion'd kiss,

The coldness of the grave is here -

My idol! can it be? -

Oh Father! from thy throne above

In mercy look on me!

They told me how the fever raged,

And in his frantic dream,

How he call'd upon the absent

With shrill, discordant scream;

How he set his teeth on cup and spoon

With hated medicine fraught,

But at his father's treasured name

He took the bitterest draught.

God gave me strength to lay him

Where his young mother slept,

The fragrant vines she used to train,

Around her feet had crept;

But I cut their roots away,

That the bud she loved the best

Might spread its wither'd petals

Upon her pulseless breast.

And now I wander wide,

Beneath a foreign sky,

In the stranger's home I lodge,

For no household hearth have I:

They are gray hairs on my temples,

Despite my early years;

But I find there's comfort still,

In drying other's tears.

Why should I cloud my brow?

Or yield to dark despair?

All - all men are brethren,

And this fruitful earth is fair;

For I know when heaven hath wounded,

And probed the bleeding breast,

Its richest, healing balm

Is in making others blest.

The poor man, he doth thank me,

And the orphan's grateful prayer

Breathes sweetly o'er my lonely soul,

To soothe away its care -

In the sick peasant's cabin,

The gift he needs I lay;

And while he seeks the giver,

I vanish far away.

I have a sacred joy,

Close lock'd from mortal eye,

My loved ones come to visit me,

When lost in dreams I lie -

They speak such words to charm me,

As only angels say,

And the beauty of their robes of light

Gleams round me through the day.

God is their keeper and their friend,

Their bliss no tongue can tell,

And more I love his holy name

That in his home they dwell.

Oh, may he grant me grace divine

While on these shores of time,

To learn the dialect they speak,

In yon celestial clime.

Beside his glorious throne they rest -

On seraphs harps they play;

Why should I wish them back again

In these cold tents of clay?

A stricken, not a mournful man,

I sigh, but not repine;

For my heart is in that land of love

With those I hope to join.

Hartford, Conn.

Mrs. L.H. Sigourney (Lydia Huntley Sigourney)

New Series 2:7, p. 28

1841.04.17

From the Gift for 1840