HANNAH.
A Picture rises from the
buried past,
A mother and her boy stand limned there
In act to part. Not for a little space,
Not for a childish holiday, nor yet,
In the death-struggle; sickness hath not paled
The roseate flush upon that blooming cheek,
Nor dimmed the gladness of that clear, bright
eye;
And his sweet ringing laugh comes gushingly,
As from a heart untainted yet by care.
And she, that fair young mother, with low voice,
And with a struggle to force back her tears,
Thus breathes her sad farewell:
“Again I return to my
desolate dwelling,
No child’s gentle accents will fall on my ear,
But memory will point to the deep fount of
pleasure
My lonely heart treasures in holiness here.
“Thou wert asked of my God,
and to Him I resign thee,
A sacrifice worthy, a gilt undefiled;
He heard my lone prayer, and sent thee to cheer
me,
Bright hope of my bosom, my innocent child!
“Oh, would not that bosom
be more than ungrateful,
If its own selfish promptings would plead for
thee now,
If the joy of thy presence could make me
unmindful
Of all my soul pledged in that grief-stricken
vow!
“Go, stainless and pure;
may the Being thou servest,
The God of thy fathers, Watch over thee still;
From childhood till age may all heavenly
blessings
Float o’er thee like sunlight and shield thee
from ill.
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“Go, ere the cold world
casts a shadow to darken
Thy glorious pathway, or dim thy career;
Ere thy young heart repents o’er a sin-blighted
moment,
Or thy cheek feels the shame of a penitent tear.
“I return to my home, but
thy image goes with me,
And though the lip writhe, and the throbbing
heart swell,
I may not embitter thy young spirit’s gladness,
Nor dim by a tear-drop, my mournful farewell!”
