Poems (Dodd)/To a Mourner

TO A MOURNER. "Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted."

Thou weepest for a sister! in the bloom
And spring-time of her years to Death a prey;
Shrouded from love by the remorseless tomb,
Taken from all life's joys and griefs away.
'Tis hard to part with one so sudden called,
So young, so happy, and so dearly loved;
To see the arrow at our idol hurled,
And vainly pray the shaft may be removed.

Young, loving, and beloved! oh, cruel Death!
Couldst thou not spare the treasure for a while?
There are worn hearts that wait to yield their breath,
And aged eyes that can no longer smile.
Why pass the weary pilgrims on their way,
Bowed down with toil, and sighing for relief,
To make the blossom in its pride thy prey,
Whose joyous heart had never tasted grief?

Weeper! thou hast a treasure for thine eyes,
In the fair semblance of the sainted dead
See the sweet, smiling face before thee rise,
From which the light of life so lately fled:
See the same bright expression beaming there;
The mild blue eyes and gentle features trace;
The lips so silent, and the soft brown hair
Shading the pure brow with its parted grace.

Sad sister, turn not hopelessly away;
Nor longer at the will of Heaven repine;
Fold not thy hands in agony and say
"There is no sorrow in the world like mine."
O, could my numbers soothe thy sinking soul,
Or one hope waken with the words I twine,
Soft sounds of sympathy around should roll,
Warm from a heart that knows such pain as thine!

I, too, have been a mourner. Sorrow deep
Its lava-tide around my pathway rolled;
And sable weeds a hue could never keep,
Sad as the heart they hid beneath their fold.
All joy grew dim before my tearful eye,
Which but the shadow of the grave could see;
There was no brightness in the earth or sky,
There was no sunshine in the world for me.

O, bitter was the draught from sorrow's cup,
And stern the anguish which my spirit wrung,
When I was called to give my idol up,
To bend a mourner o'er the loved and young.
And for the lost to weep is still my choice;
I ask for one whose pilgrimage is o'er,
And vainly listen for a vanished voice,
Whose pleasant tones shall greet my ear no more.

There is a spell around my spirit cast:
A shadow where the sunbeam smiled before:
'T is grief, but all its bitterness is past;
'T is sorrow, but its murmurings are o'er.
Within my soul, which to the storm was bowed,
Now the white wing of peace is folded deep;
And I have found, I trust, behind the cloud,
The blessing promised to the eyes that weep.

So thou wilt find relief. For deepest woe
A fount of healing in our pathway springs:
Like Lethe's stream, that silver fountains flow
A soothing draught unto the sufferer brings.
A Father chastened thee! O, look to him!
And his dear love in all thy trials see:
Look with the eye of faith through shadows dim,
And he will send "the Comforter" to thee.