Burial of an Emigrant’s Child in the Forests

Agnes. Surely ’tis all a dream--a fever-dream!The desolation and the agony--The strange, red sunrise, and the gloomy woods,So terrible with their dark giant boughs,And the broad, lonely river!--all a dream!And my boy’s voice will wake me, with its clear,Wild singing tones, as they were wont to comeThrough the wreath’d sweetbrier at my lattice-panesIn happy, happy England! Speak to me!Speak to thy mother, bright one! she hath watch’dAll the dread night beside thee, till her brainIs darken’d by swift waves of fantasies,And her soul faint with longing for thy voice.Oh! I must wake him with one gentle kissOn his fair brow!(Shudderingly.) The strange, damp, thrilling touch!The marble chill! Now, now it rushes back--Now I know all!--dead--dead!--a fearful word!My boy hath left me in the wilderness,To journey on without the blessed lightIn his deep, loving eyes. He’s gone!--he’s gone!

Husband. Agnes! my Agnes! hast thou look’d thy lastOn our sweet slumberer’s face? The hour is come--The couch made ready for his last repose.

Agnes. Not yet! thou canst not take him from me yet!If he but left me for a few short days,This were too brief a gazing time to drawHis angel image into my fond heart,And fix its beauty there. And now--oh! now,Never again the laughter of his eyeShall send its gladdening summer through my soul--Never on earth again. Yet, yet delay!Thou canst not take him from me.

Husband. My beloved!Is it not God hath taken him? the GodThat took our first-born, o’er whose early graveThou didst bow down thy saint-like head, and say,“His will be done!”

Agnes. Oh! that near household grave,Under the turf of England, seem’d not half--Not half so much to part me from my childAs these dark woods. It lay beside our home,And I could watch the sunshine, through all hours,Loving and clinging to the grassy spot;And I could dress its greensward with fresh flowers,Familiar meadow-flowers. O’er thee, my babe!The primrose will not blossom! Oh! that now,Together, by thy fair young sister’s side,We lay midst England’s valleys!

Husband. Dost thou grieve,Agnes! that thou hast follow’d o’er the deepAn exile’s fortunes? If it thus can be,Then, after many a conflict cheerily met,My spirit sinks at last.

Agnes. Forgive! forgive!My Edmund, pardon me! Oh! grief is wild--Forget its words, quick spray-drops from a fountOf unknown bitterness! Thou art my home!Mine only and my blessed one! Where’erThy warm heart beats in its true nobleness,There is my country! there my head shall rest,And throb no more. Oh! still, by thy strong love,Bear up the feeble reed!

And thou, my God!Hear my soul’s cry from this dread wilderness!Oh! hear, and pardon me! If I have madeThis treasure, sent from thee, too much the arkFraught with mine earthward-clinging happiness,Forgetting Him who gave, and might resume,Oh, pardon me!If nature hath rebell’d,And from thy light turn’d wilfully away,Making a midnight of her agony,When the despairing passion of her claspWas from its idol stricken at one touchOf thine Almighty hand--oh, pardon me!By thy Son’s anguish, pardon! In the soulThe tempests and the waves will know thy voice--Father! say, “Peace, be still!”

Farewell, my babe!Go from my bosom now to other rest!With this last kiss on thine unsullied brow,And on thy pale, calm cheek these contrite tears,I yield thee to thy Maker!

Husband. Now, my wife!Thine own meek holiness beams forth once moreA light upon my path. Now shall I bear,From thy dear arms, the slumberer to repose--With a calm, trustful heart.

Agnes. My Edmund! where--Where wilt thou lay him?

Husband. See’st thou where the spireOf yon dark cypress reddens in the sunTo burning gold?--there--o’er yon willow-tuft?Under that native desert monumentLies his lone bed. Our Hubert, since the dawn,With the gray mosses of the wildernessHath lined it closely through; and there breathed forth,E’en from the fulness of his own pure heart,A wild, sad forest hymn--a song of tears,Which thou wilt learn to love. I heard the boyChanting it o’er his solitary task,As wails a wood-bird to the thrilling leaves,Perchance unconsciously.

Agnes. My gentle son!The affectionate, the gifted! With what joy--Edmund, rememberest thou?--with what bright joyHis baby brother ever to his armsWould spring from rosy sleep, and playfullyHide the rich clusters of his gleaming hairIn that kind, useful breast! Oh! now no more!But strengthen me, my God! and melt my heart,Even to a well-spring of adoring tears,For many a blessing left.(Bending over the child.) Once more, farewell!Oh, the pale, piercing sweetness of that look!How can it be sustain’d? Away, away!

Edmund! my woman’s nature still is weak--I cannot see thee render dust to dust!Go thou, my husband! to thy solemn task;I will rest here, and still my soul with prayerTill thy return.

Husband. Then strength be with thy prayer!Peace on thy bosom! Faith and heavenly hopeUnto thy spirit! Fare thee well a while!We must be pilgrims of the woods again,After this mournful hour.