THE MOURNER'S CHAPLET. TO A BEREAVED MOTHER. JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. SURE, to the mansions of the blest Beyond where worlds material roll, That inextinguishable beam, Not unobserved, the lucid ray To its own native fount returns. But when the LORD of mortal breath And points the silent shaft of death Has quenched the radiance of the flame; Fond mourner! be that solace thine! Of their short pilgrimage on earth Still, still they bless thee for their birth, Each anxious care, each rending sigh, That wrung for them the parent's breast, Dwells on remembrance in the sky, Amid the raptures of the blest. O'er thee, with looks of love, they bend; Oft, in the stillness of the night, They smooth the pillow of thy bed; Oft, till the morn's returning light, Still watchful hover o'er thy head. Hark! in such strains as saints employ, They whisper to thy bosom peace; Calm the perturbed heart to joy, And bid the streaming sorrow cease. Then dry, henceforth, the bitter tear: Their part and thine inverted seeThou wert their guardian angel here, They guardian angels now to thee. TO WILLIAM. WRITTEN BY A BEREAVED FATHER. W. B. O. PEABODY. Ir seems but yesterday, my love, I saw thee move with active bound, Far on the sunny plains, I saw Firm, light, and graceful, as the bird And then, in all my thoughtfulness, To hear upon the morning wind Now echoing in the rapturous laugh, 'T was like the sounds I used to hear, In old and happier years. Thanks for that memory to thee, My little, lovely boy,— That memory of my youthful bliss, Suspends the out-bound oar, To taste the farewell gale that breathes From off his native shore. So gentle in thy loveliness! Alas! how could it be, That Death would not forbear to lay His icy hand on thee? Nor spare thee yet a little while, In childhood's opening bloom, While many a sad and weary soul Was mine a happiness too pure It sunk away as soon As when, in quick and cold eclipse, I loved thee, and my heart was blessed; I saw thy light and graceful form And shuddered as I cast a look Upon thy fainting head; The mournful cloud was gathering there, And life was almost fled. Days passed; and soon the seal of death I knew the swiftly-wasting lamp The cheek was pale; the snowy lips |