Poems (Helen Jenkins)/First Impressions of Death

FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF DEATH.

A neighbor's child was breathing
Its precious life away;
And, to their rustic cottage,
I went the night to stay.

Watching beside the mother
In the dimly-lighted room,
A child of dreams and fancies,
I felt and feared the gloom.

Through the low, uncurtained windows,
Peered the blackness of the night;
Nor moon, nor star, through rifted cloud,
Sent in its cheering light.

The firelight filled with spectres
Each shadowy recess.
What death was like, I did not know—
I could not even guess.

Oh, where was God? I felt adrift
Upon a shoreless sea.
I could not, dared not question
This dreadful mystery.

The stillness was unbroken,
Save by a word or sigh,—
Or were the angels round us,
Singing baby's lullaby?

Was it a dream? My listening ear
The softest whispers heard;
While, over all the darkness, shone
The glory of the Lord—

A heavenly light, dispelling
All gloomy fear and dread,
Although I heard them whisper
So low, "Baby is dead."

I left the lowly cottage
In the morning's early light,—
The weary little wanderer
Had fluttered out of sight,—

And death, that dreaded presence,
So dimly understood,
Was forgotten in the vision
Of ever present good.