Poems (Louisa Blake)/The Widow's Son restored

THE WIDOW'S SON RESTORED.

Way with such slow and measured tread,
Do these their pathway trace?
What bear they in their arms?—The dead,
To his last resting-place.

An aged female, wasted, wan,
Totters beside the bier;
The arm she 'd loved to lean upon,
Cannot support her here.

That arm lies stiffen'd by his side,
As n his silence deep
He who was all her joy, her pride,
Lies in his breathless sleep.

He was her dear, her only son,
Her widow'd heart's sole stay,
All, all, save him had long since gone,
Now he is call'd away.

With him, all earthly hope decays,
The last fond tie is riven,
And earnestly and long she prays,
To meet her child in Heaven.

But who can speak her blessed lot
When on her ears are pour'd
The Saviour's gentle words "weep not,
Your son shall be restored."

And at that voice the warm blood flows
Beneath her warm caress,
And all the widow'd mother's woes
Are lost in blessedness.