The Philopoena: or, Friendship's offering ; a gift for all seasons . but high eternal noon Shineth forever. But my breath is weak,And icy coldness steals upon my brow :Mother, farewell—there—there—Im happy now— My eyes are dim and heavy—let me sleep. Day after day that anguished mother sought,Yet sought in vain, her hearts tond idol—allThe hopes and expectations that had cheeredHer lonely widowhood, and gave a charmTo life, united in him. But as thus she weptAnd gave her sorrows to the evening wind,A well known voice falls on her listening ear :Tis the faint baying of their faithful dog,Still
The Philopoena: or, Friendship's offering ; a gift for all seasons . but high eternal noon Shineth forever. But my breath is weak,And icy coldness steals upon my brow :Mother, farewell—there—there—Im happy now— My eyes are dim and heavy—let me sleep. Day after day that anguished mother sought,Yet sought in vain, her hearts tond idol—allThe hopes and expectations that had cheeredHer lonely widowhood, and gave a charmTo life, united in him. But as thus she weptAnd gave her sorrows to the evening wind,A well known voice falls on her listening ear :Tis the faint baying of their faithful dog,Still watching round his youthful masters as the frighted fawn, she seeks the spotWhence came that sound, when lo ! she stands be-sideHer long-lost child—she clasps him to her heart,With feelings that no language may presses on his cheek one burning kiss,And calls his name. But no soft voice is heard,Nor loving glance repays her fond , no ! those eyes were sealed in dreamless sleep—The little wanderers spirit had gone 141 THE MOTHER TO HER BURIED CHILD. EY JOHN W. MCrNE. Agnes, my loved and lovely one,I miss thee from my vacant knee ; I turn to hear thy prattling tone,But ah ! it sounds no more to me. I may not—cannot clasp thee now,And to my bosom closely press ; But oer thy grave my burning brow-Oft pours its streams of bitterness. I know tis useless thus to weep :Unceasing tears are shed in vain ; But sorrows fountain wells so deep, Though often stanched, twould gush again. Oblivion—false, mistaken friend—Bids een thine image to depart; But memory wakes, whose powers contendTo fix thee firmer in my heart. The brightest buds are doomed to blowAnd blast beneath a kind caress ; So thou didst bloom, alas ! to showThat fate is foe to loveliness. Thou wert all lovely ; thy sweet infant song, and sparkling eye. Gave birth to feelings new and warm,A doating mothers ecstasy. Not lovely to my heart alone Was thy sweet face
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1850, booksubjectgiftboo, bookyear1854
