Alfred H. Miles, ed. Women Poets of the Nineteenth Century. 1907.
By Poems. IV. To a Dying InfantCaroline (Bowles) Southey (17871854)
S
Not in thy cradle bed,
Not on thy mother’s breast
Henceforth shall be thy rest,
But with the quiet dead.
Baby! thy rest shall be—
Oh! many a weary wight,
Weary of life and light,
Would fain lie down with thee!
Flee to thy grassy nest—
There the first flowers shall blow,
The first pure flake of snow
Shall fall upon thy breast.
Labours with shortening breath.
Peace! peace! that tremulous sigh
Speaks his departure nigh—
Those are the damps of Death.
A thing all health and glee;
But never then wert thou
So beautiful, as now,
Baby! thou seem’st to me.
Like harebells wet with dew—
Already veiled and hid
By the convulsèd lid,
Their pupils darkly blue.
Thy soft lip quivering,
As if, like summer air,
Ruffling the rose leaves, there
Thy soul were fluttering.
Young spirit! hence—depart!
And is this Death?—Dread thing!
If such thy visiting,
How beautiful thou art!
Upon that waxen face,
So passionless! so pure!
The little shrine was sure
An angel’s dwelling-place.
Ay, weep—’twill ease thine heart;
He was thy first-born son—
Thy first, thine only one;
’Tis hard from him to part.
Deep in the damp cold earth,
His empty crib to see,
His silent nursery,
Late ringing with his mirth.
His small mouth’s rosy kiss,
Then—waken’d with a start
By thine own throbbing heart—
His twining arms to miss.
And think the live-long night—
Feeding thine own distress
With accurate greediness—
Of every past delight;
His pretty, playful smiles,
His joy at sight of thee,
His tricks, his mimicry,
And all his little wiles.
Round mothers’ hearts that cling!
That mingle with the tears
And smiles of after years,
With oft awakening.
In after years look back—
Time brings such wondrous easing—
With sadness not unpleasing,
Even on this gloomy track.
It almost broke my heart,
When thou wert forced to go;
And yet for thee, I know,
’Twas better to depart.
A lamb untask’d—untried—
He fought the fight for thee,
He won the victory—
And thou art sanctified.
The evil ways of men,
And oh, belovèd child!
I’m more than reconciled
To thy departure then.
The innocent lips that prest—
Would they have been as pure
’Till now, as when of yore
I lull’d thee on my breast?
Within a crystal stone,
Thou’rt safe in Heaven, my dove:
Safe with the Source of Love,
The Everlasting One!
From flesh that sets me free,
Thy spirit may await,
The first at Heaven’s gate,
To meet and welcome me.”