Song of the Earth-Weary, by Mary T. Lathrap

Song of the Earth-Weary

Father, take home thy child;
One only boon my soul doth wildly crave, --
A dreamless rest within a quiet grave,
A heart all hushed, to throb no more with pain,
Eyes closed in silence ne'er to wake again
To earthly grief so wild.   I know the world seems fair,
But mocking echoes from the joys that flew
Swift as the sunlight steal the diamond dew,
And gathering shadows, misty, cold, and dark,
That cast their twilight ever round the heart,
Whispers of nought but care.   Tho' morning's sky be bright,
Calm and serene in its unclouded blue
As the bright sun climbs its high arches through,
Yet e'er his beams shall fade along the west,
The dark storm-cloud may wrap his couch of rest,
Veiling his beams in night.   Earth's flowers all sweetly bloom,
But ah! The fairest hides the secret thorn
By which the hand of him who plucks is torn;
The close wrapped bud conceals a living death,
Withering its beauty like a poison breath,
Within itself a tomb.   The plaintive murmured song
Of the bright river in its graceful sweep,
Falls on the ear like music wildly sweet;
Yet if the surface with the sunlight glow,
Still there's a current cold and dark below,
Hidden, silent, but strong.   Love's dream, too, knows decay;
Awhile the soul-harp's wildly thrilling strain
Pours out those notes we ne'er forget again,
And the deep fountains of the heart burst forth
As if to gladden every spot of earth;
But O! It will not stay.   An hour the song may flow;
Then one rude touch will shatter every wire,
And hush the notes of that strange magic lyre.
Affection's tide checked in its onward roll
Flows back an icy wave upon the soul,
And Hope's star sets in woe.   The world is dark to me;
For early round me gathered clouds of gloom,
For early in my heart joy found a tomb;
And haunting shadows from the gloomy past,
Make all the future seem a shrouded path, --
A shadowed destiny.   Grant me the boon I seek;
Earth's flowers are fading, and the joys I clasp
Turn all to ashes in my straining grasp;
I would not linger where each broken tie
Makes me but yearn, like all I love, to lie
In death's undreaming sleep.

poems.one - Mary T. Lathrap

Mary T. Lathrap