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Title: Reflections On The Death Of Mr. White
Author: Sarah S. Mower [
More Titles by Mower]
REFLECTIONS
OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF S. WHITE, OF LIVERMORE,
WHO DIED DEC. 25TH, 1842, AGED 26.
Why do these tears bedew our eyes?
Why heaves the breast with bursting sighs?
We've seen a friend depart;
In vain we tune our harp and sing,
We cannot touch that thrilling string,
Which vibrates in the heart.
Engaging, graceful and refined,
Frank, open, generous and kind,
Was our departed friend;
His mental powers were deep and clear,--
His ardent friendship, most sincere,
With life alone could end.
His heart could feel for others' woe--
How oft his footsteps, soft and low,
Fell on the suff'rer's ear!
Each word he spake, their grief to quell,
Seemed waters gushing from a well,
Whose fount was deep and clear.
In early years he mourned for sin,
And prayed for garments white and clean,
Washed in the Savior's blood.
He journeyed on for many years,
Amidst temptations, doubts, and fears,
But found a pard'ning God.
His lustrous eyes are dim in death,
His voice passed like the zephyr's breath,
That heart has lost its lone;
But while we weep around his dust,
That soul its prison doors hath burst,
And worships 'round the throne.
But shall we murmur and complain?
Shall our warm tears descend like rain
Around his early grave?
While kindred dear must weep and mourn,
More sacred tears bedew his urn
Than ever friendship gave.
That brother, who with him has played
Beside the brook, or in the shade
Where feathered warblers sang,
And sported by the river side,
Or o'er the ice taught him to glide,
While merry laughter rang--
His love increased with growing years,
One were their hopes, their joys, their fears,
Their Savior, too, was one.
That brother's grief must be severe,
Yet from his lips we hope to hear,
"My Father's will be done."
Like ivy, round some youthful pine,
Did Julia's warm affections twine
Round his fraternal heart;
Through adverse scenes they struggled long,
Which rendered nature's ties more strong,
But they, alas! must part.
Should fell disease assail her now,
Place his pale signet on her brow,
And chill her heart with fear;
No more he'd stand beside her bed,--
Bathe her parched lips, and aching head,
And strive her mind to cheer.
She'll range the paths where they have strayed,
And wander through the silent shade,
And ask, "is brother here?"
She'll view the grave, and that will say
There's naught within but mould'ring clay,
No more will he appear.
That sister, who hath sought a friend
To share her grief till time shall end,
Must still in tears be drowned;
Although a partner soothes her grief,
And kindly strives to give relief,
And children cluster round;--
She sees their glossy ringlets flow,
In clusters o'er each little brow;
They speak of days gone by,
When she with brother often strayed,
O'er hill and dale and flow'ry glade,
Where golden sunbeams lie.
A fair young friend, whose aching heart
Now feels affliction's keenest dart,
Must long in sadness weep;
Her brightest hopes are fled away,
Alas! her sweetest joys decay,
They in the grave must sleep.
Her heart still bleeds at every pore,
That much loved form she'll see no more,
Till Gabriel's trump shall sound;
We trust they'll then in raptures rise,
To that blight world above the skies,
Where tears no more are found.
His aged parents feel the blow;
Long since they gazed upon his brow,
And blessed their infant boy;
Trembling with age, we hear them say,
"This dear support is torn away,
What now can yield us joy?
"Long years we watched our lovely plant,
With care supplied its every want,
And hoped it long might bloom;
But fierce disease has laid it low,
Reckless of tears that 'round it flow.
And laid it in the tomb.
"Long, long we nursed his fading form,
And strove to shun the gath'ring storm,
Which threaten'd in the sky;
Yet from our bleeding bosoms torn,
Our darling son leaves us to mourn;
Who can his place supply?"
But could their vision now extend
To those bright realms where dwells their friend,
Their tears would cease to flow;
They'd long to leave this dusky sphere,
And from their lips we soon should hear,
"Dear Savior, let me go."
No more they'd wish the seraph here,
To wander in this vale so drear,
And lay his glory by;
To suffer years of grief and pain,
And cross cold Jordan's stream again,
To reach the joys on high.
[The end]
Sarah S. Mower's Poem: Reflections On The Death Of Mr. White
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