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Title: Lines On The Death Of R., P.B., C., S., And M.A. Wing
Author: Sarah S. Mower [
More Titles by Mower]
LINES UPON THE DEATH OF REUBEN, PELEG B. CHARLES,
SUSAN AND MARY A. WING,
(Children of Mr. Reuben and Mrs. Lucy Wing of Livermore,)
who died within the space of 2 years and 8
mouths, between the ages of 15 and 21 years.
Just like the rainbow in a shower,--
Like clouds that vanish in an hour.
Or some fair fragile vernal flower.
They passed away.
I was dumb, I opened not my mouth, because thou didst it.--Scripture.
A peaceful dwelling, once we found,
Where dwelt the bright eyed laughing boy;
Fair blooming sisters clustered round,
Fond parents eyed the group with joy.
But death, who feeds on tears and woe,
Beheld this happy youthful hand;
Then bade his pale companion go
And smite them with his with'ring hand.
The son, just launched on manhood's tide,
The doating father's prop and stay,--
The tender mother's joy and pride,--
Became the fell destroyer's prey;
While tasting bliss without alloy,
Thrice happy with his youthful bride.
Alas! how frail all mortal joy,
When cast on life's tempestuous tide.
Hygenia lends her aid in vain,--
No balm can heal his aching breast,--
Nor anxious friends relieve one pain,
Or give the sinking suff'rer rest.
Patient and uncomplaining still,
He smiles and cheers each weeping friend;
Faith, love and grief, their bosoms fill,
While he draws near his peaceful end.
He calmly bids his friends adieu;
My lovely bride, he cries, farewell!
By faith fair Canaan's land I view,
Oh may we there together dwell.
Do'nt weep for me, dear mourning friends,
I'm not afraid to meet my God;
The chief of sinners pardon finds,
Washed in the Savior's precious blood.
He sleeps in Jesus and is blest;
I hear the sacred word proclaim,
That all shall find eternal rest,
Who trusted in their Savior's name.
Nor has the pale destroyer done,
Although one victim is at rest;--
He plucks his dagger from the son,
And plants it in a daughter's breast.
The blooming Susan feels the blow,--
Her ruby lips turn deathly pale,--
She cries, Oh! mother, I must go,--
This fatal weapon cannot fail.
The blushing rose forsakes her cheek,--
The lily now usurps its place;--
But still she's patient, mild and meek,
She daily grows in ev'ry grace.
Though fading, yet more lovely still.
She twines around each kindred heart,
While this dread truth their bosoms fill,
That they with her must shortly part.
The long feared fatal hour draws near,--
Deep silence hushed the mourning throng,
Yet still her feeble voice they hear,--
Dear mother, falters on her tongue.
That name her infant tongue first learned,
It trembled on her latest breath;--
Yet a deaf ear the monster turned,
And hushed the tender sound in death.
A placid smile is on her brow;--
Does filial love still linger there?
Or does her convoy angel now
Breathe heavenly music in her ear?
Long ere a springing blade appeared
Upon that daughter's new made grave,--
Consumption cries, Oh! be prepared,
Another blooming form I crave.
A youthful son was now his prey,--
Whose rising merits win each heart,--
A noble mind beams from his eye,--
Fair virtue dwells in his young heart.
Yet pale disease now lurks around,
His active limbs their vigor lose;
But lo! he hears the joyful sound;--
The gospel brings him glorious news.
What though his earthly house decays,
And swiftly sink life's ebbing sands;
He's one eternal in the skies,
Not made by dying, mortal hands.
While friends ask, must you go so soon,
Oh must we part with you to-day?
He, smiling, says, I crave the boon;
Joyful I go without delay.
My Savior cheers the lonely vale,
His smiles of love dispel the gloom;
Oh then how can my courage fail--
Why should I dread the peaceful tomb?
The Savior blest this lowly bed,
And robbed the monster of his sting;
My Lord will raise me from the dead,--
Give me a harp and bid me sing.
Behold this lovely, youthful saint,
In raptures close his dying eyes;
He yields to death without complaint,
And soars triumphant to the skies.
Voracious grave! thou ne'er wast cloy'd!
Thy constant cry has been for more,
Since Abel, thy first victim, died;
Yet thou art eager as before.
Once more death bends the fatal bow,--
Again he seeks a shining mark;
Another blooming son lies low,--
Death steals away the vital spark.
Though far from home and those dear friends
Which soothe his grief and crown his bliss,
His heavenly Father comfort sends,--
The Holy Spirit whispers peace.
He seeks the dear paternal hearth,
To die by his fond parent's side;
To him the dearest friends on earth,
Who with a smile each tear would hide.
A few short weeks he lingered there,
While heav'nly peace reigned in his breast;
He cries, my friends, oh now prepare
To meet where sorrows ne'er molest.
Though earthly friends are dear to me,
I feel them twining round my heart,
A friend in heaven, by faith, I see,
Who bids my joyful soul depart.
Dear mourning friends, now dry your tears;
Bid ev'ry murm'ring thought be still;
My mind is free from doubts and fears,--
I sink into my Savior's will.
With smiles of vict'ry on his brow,
And heav'nly transport in his breast,
Well pleased, he leaves this vale of woe,
And like an infant sinks to rest.
Down through the portals of the sky
Descend a glorious shining band.
Who waft his soul to joys on high,
And blissful scenes at God's right hand.
Nor does the monster yet relent,--
Four blooming victims he has slain,
Yet on another now intent,
He bends his fatal bow again.
And must this only daughter go,
Ere half her budding graces bloom?
Yes, cruel death will take her too,
To swell his numbers in the tomb.
See on her cheek the death rose bloom,
And smile with a deceitful glow;
'Tis the red banner of the tomb,
To warn her friends that she must go.
With bleeding hearts they feel the rod,
And weeping, lay her in the grave,
Yet with submission yield to God,
The precious jewel which he gave.
But when the trump of God shall sound,
To call each sainted sleeper home,
Should they, with ev'ry child, surround
The mighty conq'ror of the tomb--
They'll cry, oh Lord, thou ever just,
Behold is and our children here!
Thou didst in love give them to us,
And we resigned them to thy care.
Now we will chant Redemption's sung,
Which Gabriel never learned to sing,
Nor one of all th' angelic throng,--
To Jesus, prophet, priest and king.
[The end]
Sarah S. Mower's Poem: Lines On The Death Of R., P.B., C., S., And M.A. Wing
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