« PreviousContinue »
And here it lies upon my arm,
Alas! and I have none;
To-day I fetched it from the rock;
It is the last of all my flock."
Or, if the grave be now thy bed,
Nor sorrow may attend thy name?
Seven years, alas! to have received
No tidings of an only child;
To have despaired, have hoped, believed,
Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!
I catch at them, and then I miss ;
He was among the prime in worth,
An object beauteous to behold;
Well born, well bred; I sent him forth
If things ensued that wanted grace,
Ah! little doth the young one dream,
But do not make her love the less.
Neglect me! no, I suffered long
Kind mother have I been, as kind
As ever breathed:" and that is true;
My son, if thou be humbled, poor,
Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings,
All that is left to comfort thee.
Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan, Maimed, mangled by inhuman men;
Or thou upon a desert thrown
Inheritest the lion's den;
Or hast been summoned to the deep,
Thou, thou, and all thy mates, to keep An incommunicable sleep.
I look for ghosts; but none will force
My apprehensions come in crowds; I dread the rustling of the grass; shadows of the clouds
Have power to shake me as they pass :
I question things and do not find
Beyond participation lie
My troubles, and beyond relief:
Then come to me, my son, or send
Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent
And made a hidden valley of their own.
No habitation can be seen; but they
Who journey thither find themselves alone
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites
That overhead are sailing in the sky.