by William Buchanan.
Originally published in Temple Bar–A London Magazine for Town and Country Readers (Ward and Lock) vol.2 #7 (Jun 1861).
Portion First.
Lean your wet face upon my breast,
Dear wife, and on my strong love rest;
Bring all the comfort that you can
(As the small child did comfort us),
By stealing to mine arms, and thus
Appealing to my sterner man.
For now the little infant hands
That served as stainless marriage bands,
And caused the pleasing, teasing toil
That kept us sure on steadfast soil,
And taught us almost unaware
A larger love through larger care,—
Now those small hands no more can plead
For union equal to their need—
'Tis better that your woe at length
Should lean upon my grosser strength.
And yet the pain and bitter smart
That seem, dear love, to clothe your heart
With a new charity divine
Have only power to harden mine;
My faith, when tried, is less than thine.—
I lift up eyes to heaven, and say:
Why take our little child away?
Why will our little boy should die
With one Spring's sunshine in his eye?
Why hear us pray on bended knee,
Yet rob us of our claim on Thee?
It seems so hard to lose him, dear,
Just when he grew so lovely here—
To let him leave us as he came
Just when he learned to lisp your name!
He was our Bible for a year.
He was a little common child,
A little grieving baby-boy,
Not fairer than the rest,—yet joy
Came down from heaven when he smiled:
Common and human, yet more fair
To us than other children were.
We loved him for his innocent eyes,
We loved him for his pleading cries,
We loved him for the anxious fears
That caused us sleepless nights of tears,
We loved him for the pain he caused;
But when his heart grew cold and paused,
We folded hands, as if we knew
Love left us little more to do;
Turned faces from the sun, and thought
The bitterness our sorrow taught
Rent us asunder, passion-fraught;
And, hungering o'er the little one,
We thought our blood too cold to run
Out from the fireside to the sun,
In sparkles, as it once had done.
I watched you, darling, when the breath
Had darkened from the little face,
Comfort your bosom for a space
With tender offices of death.
You placed the little snowy gown,
And drew the cap more softly down
Over the face without a frown,
And wrapt the tiny clay-cold feet
Within the little winding-sheet,
And smoothed the gleaming golden hair;
And somehow, dear, the bitter care
Seemed to make music in your breast,
And hush it into dreamful rest.
Till, bending down, you touched the meek
And patient sleeper on the cheek,
And all the mother's buried bliss
Surged in upon you with the kiss;
When, helpless with your utter woe,
You swam towards me cold as snow;
And hung about me, while your pain,
Communing with my burning brain,
Brought back the love of other years
In a white trance of sighs and tears.
We were so happy, best of wives!
The quiet current of our lives
In pleasant peaceful music played,
Caught sunshine in the very shade.
We were so happy, dear, that we,
Made perfect in our just degree,
Dreamed not that you, a mother bland,
Bearing your jewel in your hand,
Were swimming with it to a strand
Where shadows fall and angels stand,
To leave it there at God's command.
My darling, in this moment dire,—
When Death lies white in yonder room,
And we are sitting in the gloom,
Watching the faces in the fire,
Shut in from all the pitiless stars,—
I mind of the days past o'er,
The tiny frets and puny jars,
Which only made us love the more
Our little babe now gone before.
For when our love should shudder down
Behind the darkness of a frown,
We somehow felt in either heart,
When for the moment rent apart,
That the sweet love we hid behind
Some passing shadow of the mind
Shone downwards, and in secret smiled
Upon the slumbers of our child;
And so, in turn, we learned to gain
A sweet remorse within the brain,
Which brought the sunshine and the rain!
He was a Peacemaker divine!
Why does the sorrow which has power
To shape your beauty to the hour,
Sweeten your heart, yet blacken mine?
Portion Second.
And was your sleep so sound last night,
And he so near in calm forlorn,
Dressed in his raiments snowy white,
Ere laid so low to-morrow morn?
And did you fancy, dear, that he
Was sitting smiling on your knee?
I scarcely slept at all. It seems
So strange that you, who treasured best
Our little baby gone to rest,
Should sleep such sleep and dream such dreams.
The love that women seldom speak
Perchance lies deeper than the weak
Man's passion breathed in words of heat;
And you, whose joy was calm and sweet
As Autumn lights in time of wheat,
Are in your sorrow hushed and bowed
To faith that wears a firmer form.
Far from the tumult fierce and warm
Which makes me mouth my grief aloud,
Thou movest as a quiet cloud
Across a driving mist of storm.
Stand by the window here, and place
Your hand in mine, and try to chase
Those quiet shadows from your face.
The tiny fairies of the snow
In cloudy squadrons waver slow,
To some sweet musical refrain
Supplied within the listening brain,
Toward the trancéd earth below;
The skies are thick with driving mist,
Smote by the sun to amethyst;
The air is husht, the snowy fays
Float swiftly past the eyes that gaze,
And flash a dreamy peace intense
Across the dim mesmeric sense.
All is so sadly sweet and fair,
The snow-clad earth, the moving air,
That the lost babe whose name we bless
Seems part of all sad loveliness.
But death is with us where we stand
So close together, husht in awe;—
Now pass within, and clasp my hand
More closely with your own, dear.
Draw
The stainless curtains, raise thine eyes—
Lo, there our little darling lies.
Careless to human eyes that weep,
Calmly he sleeps his coffin'd sleep;
With white clench'd hands and closéd eyes,
Sweetly he sleeps, our pearl of pearls,
And light in common with the skies
Mingling with earth among his curls.
A remnant of the soul that fled
Ere morning broke and found him dead,
Unto his lips a half smile clings,
Like gold-down from a butterfly's wings.
I see in that calm face alone
Your tender fancy—'tis my own:
So calm he sleeps, rebuking sin,
And paining down all petty doubt,
You think the snow-calm death within
Is like the falling snow without?
And more. Nay, take your hand away,
You need no help from my rough clay;
Your sorrow is of God—you need
No help from any meaner creed.
Sweet wife, that patient grief of thine
Is nearer baby's soul than mine:
That patient grief that knows not speech
Is like the chamber with its woe,
And like the season of the snow—
And harmonises God with each.
Conclusion
To-day our little one was laid
Within a place of peaceful shade;
The soft green grass and white snow keep
Our footprints o'er his quiet sleep—
But in the early April hours
He'll fill those footprints full of flowers.
A pleasant thought. The flowers shall bloom
In natural sequence from his tomb,
And fill the tracks that sorrow raises
With tender thoughts and prayerful praises—
The heart's forget-me-nots and daisies.
Is it not so, my darling wife?
His memory with our grief at strife
Will hush the tumult of our life.
Our hearts a calmer peace have found
Now he is laid beneath the ground;
He seems so far away, my dear,
So far away and yet so near—
He sleeps so deeply darkly down,
Yet is he near enough to hear
The children shouting in the town.
A bitter thought; that quite unmans
My soul, and mocks our tender plans
To keep his memory sweet and green
As if this death had never been:
It seems so hard to lose him, dear,
Just when he seemed so lovely here,
And looking forth in tears to-day,
To see the other children play
With roses on their cheeks,—while he
Is white as lilies on the wave!
(Comfort, sweet heart, be brave, be brave)
Ah! yes, it seems so hard to see
The little children run in glee
Between our shadows and his grave!
Yet comfort. If our shadows fall
Across the children in their joy,
They reach not him, our baby-boy,—
There where he sleeps, our all in all;
Our grief's dark shadows interpose
Between our earth and heaven, sweet wife,
But cannot reach his sweet repose.
It means that this our troublous breath
May lend a sadder gloom to life,
May shadow others with its strife,
But cannot reach the light of death:
The peaceful light which lies above
The little baby that we love,
And, falling on us unaware
(Here where we stand and try to cope
With sorrow that is not despair,
And lean on one another's hope),
Teaches a pain akin to prayer.
In this snow-white and sad December,
When we are sitting quite alone,
It seems a comfort to remember
The sweet lost joys that we have known.
So place your hand in mine again
(You need my help a little now),
And while I talk of loss and gain,
Of buried joy and present pain,
Keep this calm kiss upon your brow.
Do you remember, dear, the night
You first did place him on my knee,
And laught and clapt your hands in glee
Because I could not hold him right;
And called me awkward in your joy,
Then snatched him up, pretending fright,
And showering kisses on the boy?
And, dear, do you remember too
How merrily I bantered you
Because, when first his querulous eyes
Began to notice us and smile,
You praised his wisdom, held him wise
Beyond the statesmen of our isle?
We often said, you know, that he
Would be a statesman, sage, or bard;
We little dreamt that he would be
So soon, through trial keen and hard,
A teacher wiser than the three.
'Tis over now. His face, placed far,
Pathetic as the evening star,
Shines down upon our earthly way:
The face was marble yesterday—
A common little thing of clay.
Is it not strange that we should steal
Our lost joys back again, and feel
So much more calm and patient now
Than when he lay in yonder room
Amid the sorrow and the gloom,
With our last kisses on his brow?
But God is good—in woe or bliss:—
Your patient grief, O best of wives,
At least has served to teach me this;
And I believe, by this fond kiss,
Death has bound closelier our twin lives.
If God our suffering hearts should bless
With such another loveliness;
If God, who took our child, dear wife,
Should bless our lives with such another,
I think his little angel-brother
Will plead in heaven for his life!
God giveth His beloved sleep.
He makes your sorrow calm and deep
As this still season of the snow,
As that calm churchyard with its woe.
Let us not doubt, dear, while we weep!
For Nature is in unison
With death and with our little one;
And with the patient woe you keep
Hid from the sunshine of the sun.
His dust, communing with a light
From heaven, morning, noon, and night,
Will in the summer season bloom
In flowers that beautify the tomb;—
Your hidden grief, communing high
With a small angel in the sky,
Will bring forth blessings by and by;—
Thus will those fairy snowy showers,
Falling in sadly lovely hours
To the deep caves and granite bowers,
Commune with summer's secret powers,
And change to fairies of the flowers.
Is it not so? You bow your face
Upon my bosom, prouder, truer:
Come to my heart, then,—'tis your place—
And, praying prayers there, make me pure.