The Home Book of Verse
Chapter 66 : I'd a dream to-night As I fell asleep, O! the touching sight Makes me still to wee

I'd a dream to-night As I fell asleep, O! the touching sight Makes me still to weep: Of my little lad, Gone to leave me sad, Ay, the child I had, But was not to keep.

As in heaven high, I my child did seek, There in train came by Children fair and meek, Each in lily white, With a lamp alight; Each was clear to sight, But they did not speak.

Then, a little sad, Came my child in turn, But the lamp he had, O it did not burn!

He, to clear my doubt, Said, half-turned about, "Your tears put it out; Mother, never mourn."

William Barnes [1801-1886]

THE LITTLE GHOST

The stars began to peep Gone was the bitter day.

She heard the milky ewes Bleat to their lambs astray.

Her heart cried for her lamb Lapped cold in the churchyard sod, She could not think on the happy children At play with the Lamb of G.o.d.

She heard the calling ewes And the lambs' answer, alas!

She heard her heart's blood drip in the night As the ewes' milk on the gra.s.s.

Her tears that burnt like fire So bitter and slow ran down She could not think on the new-washed children Playing by Mary's gown.

Oh who is this comes in Over her threshold stone?

And why is the old dog wild with joy Who all day long made moan?

This fair little radiant ghost, Her one little son of seven, New 'scaped from the band of merry children In the nurseries of Heaven.

He was all clad in white Without a speck or stain; His curls had a ring of light That rose and fell again.

"Now come with me, my own mother, And you shall have great ease, For you shall see the lost children Gathered to Mary's knees."

Oh, lightly sprang she up Nor waked her sleeping man, And hand in hand with the little ghost Through the dark night she ran.

She is gone swift as a fawn, As a bird homes to its nest, She has seen them lie, the sleepy children Twixt Mary's arm and breast.

At morning she came back; Her eyes were strange to see.

She will not fear the long journey, However long it be.

As she goes in and out She sings unto hersel'; For she has seen the mothers' children And knows that it is well.

Katherine Tynan Hinkson [1861-1931]

MOTHERHOOD

The night throbs on; O, let me pray, dear lad!

Crush off his name a moment from my mouth.

To Thee my eyes would turn, but they go back, Back to my arm beside me, where he lay-- So little, Lord, so little and so warm!

I cannot think that Thou hadst need of him!

He was so little, Lord, he cannot sing, He cannot praise Thee; all his life had learned Was to hold fast my kisses in the night.

Give him to me--he is not happy there!

He had not felt this life; his lovely eyes Just knew me for his mother, and he died.

Hast Thou an angel there to mother him?

I say he loves me best--if he forgets, If Thou allow it that my child forgets And runs not out to meet me when I come--

What are my curses to Thee? Thou hast heard The curse of Abel's mother, and since then We have not ceased to threaten at Thy throne, To threat and pray Thee that Thou hold them still In memory of us.

See Thou tend him well, Thou G.o.d of all the mothers. If he lack One of his kisses--ah, my heart, my heart, Do angels kiss in heaven? Give him back!

Forgive me, Lord, but I am sick with grief, And tired of tears, and cold to comforting.

Thou art wise, I know, and tender, aye, and good, Thou hast my child, and he is safe in Thee, And I believe--

Ah, G.o.d, my child shall go Orphaned among the angels! All alone.

So little and alone! He knows not Thee, He only knows his mother--give him back.

Josephine Daskam Bacon [1876-

THE MOTHER'S PRAYER

The good Lord gave, the Lord has taken from me, Blessed be His name, His holy will be done.

The mourners all have gone, all save I, his mother, The little grave lies lonely in the sun.

Nay! I would not follow, though they did beseech me, For the angels come now waiting for my dead.

Heaven's door is open, so my whispers soar there, While the gentle angels lift him from his bed.

Oh Lord, when Thou gavest he was weak and helpless, Could not rise nor wander from my s.h.i.+elding arm; Lovely is he now and strong with four sweet summers, Laughing, running, tumbling, hard to keep from harm.

If some tender mother, whose babe on earth is living, Takes his little hand to guide his stranger feet 'Mid the countless hosts that cross the floor of heaven, Thou wilt not reprove her for Thy pity sweet.

If upon her breast she holds his baby beauty, All his golden hair will fall about her hand, Laughing let her fingers pull it into ringlets-- Long and lovely ringlets. She will understand.

Wilful are his ways and full of merry mischief; If he prove unruly, lay the blame on me.

Never did I chide him for his noise or riot, Smiled upon his folly, glad his joy to see.

Each eve shall I come beside his bed so lowly; "Hush-a-by, my baby," softly shall I sing, So, if he be frightened, full of sleep and anger, The song he loved shall reach him and sure comfort bring.

Lord, if in my praying, Thou shouldst hear me weeping, Ever was I wayward, always full of tears, Take no heed of this grief. Sweet the gift Thou gavest All the cherished treasure of those golden years.

Do not, therefore, hold me to Thy will ungrateful: Soon I shall stand upright, smiling, strong, and brave, With a son in heaven the sad earth forgetting, But 'tis lonely yet, Lord, by the little grave.

Oh, 'tis lonely, lonely, by the little grave!

Dora Sigerson Shorter [1862-1918]