Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE MOURNERS, by ELIZA COOK


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE MOURNERS, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: King death sped forth in his dreaded power
Last Line: Laid the mourning child in the parent's grave.
Subject(s): Mourning; Bereavement


King Death sped forth in his dreaded power
To make the most of his tyrant hour;
And the first he took a white robed girl,
With the orange bloom twined in each glossy curl.
Her fond betrothed hung over the bier,
Bathing her shroud with the gushing tear,
He madly raved, he shrieked his pain,
With frantic speech and burning brain.
"There's no joy," cried he, "now my dearest is gone.
Take, take me, Death; for I cannot live on!"

The sire was robbed of his eldest-born,
And he bitterly bled while the branch was torn:
Other scions were round as good and fair,
But none seemed so bright as the breathless heir
"My hopes are crushed," was the father's cry;
"Since my darling is lost, I, too, would die."
The valued friend was snatched away,
Bound to another from childhood's day;
And the one that was left exclaimed in despair,
"Oh? he sleeps in the tomb -- let me follow him there!"

A mother was taken, whose constant love
Had nestled her child like a fair young dove;
And the heart of that child to the mother had grown,
Like the ivy to oak, or the moss to the stone:
Nor loud nor wild was the burst of wo,
But the tide of anguish ran strong below;
And the reft one turned from all that was light;
From the flowers of day and the stars of night;
Breathing where none might near or see --
"Where thou art, my mother, thy child would be."

Death smiled as he heard each earnest word;
"Nay, nay," said he, "be this work deferred;
I'll see thee again in a fleeting year,
And, if grief and devotion live on sincere,
I promise then thou shalt share the rest
Of the being now plucked from thy doating breast;
Then, if thou cravest the coffin and pall
As thou dost this moment, my spear shall fall."
And Death fled till Time on his rapid wing
Gave the hour that brought back the skeleton king.

But the lover was ardently wooing again,
Kneeling in serfdom, and proud of his chain;
He had found an idol to adore,
Rarer than that he had worshipped before.
His step was gay, his laugh was loud,
As he led the way for the bridal crowd;
And his eyes still kept their joyous ray,
Though he went by the grave where his first love lay.
"Ha! ha!" shouted Death, "'tis passing clear
That I am a guest not wanted here!"

The father was seen in his children's games,
Kissing their flushed brows and blessing their names!
And his eye grew bright as he marked the charms
Of the boy at his knee and the girl in his arms:
His voice rung out in the merry noise,
He was first in all their hopes and joys;
He ruled their sports in the setting sun,
Nor gave a thought to the missing one.
"Are ye ready?" cried Death, as he raised his dart.
"Nay! nay!" shrieked the father; "in mercy depart!"

The friend again was quaffing the bowl,
Warmly pledging his faith and soul;
His bosom cherished with glowing pride
A stranger form that sat by his side;
His hand the hand of that stranger pressed;
He praised his song, he echoed his jest;
And the mirth and wit of that new-found mate
Made a blank of the name so prized of late.
"See! see!" cried Death, as he hurried past,
"How bravely the bonds of friendship last!"

But the orphan child! Oh, where was she?
With clasping hands and bended knee,
All alone on the church-yard's sod,
Mingling the names of mother and God.
Her dark and sunken eye was hid,
Fast weeping beneath the swollen lid;
Her sigh was heavy, her forehead was chill,
Betraying the wound was unhealed still;
And her smothered prayer was yet heard to crave
A speedy home in the self-same grave.

Hers was the love all holy and strong;
Hers was the sorrow fervent and long;
Hers was the spirit whose light was shed
As an incense fire above the dead.
Death lingered there, and paused awhile;
But she beckoned him on with a welcoming smile.
"There's a solace," cried she, "for all others to find,
But a mother leaves no equal behind;"
And the kindest blow Death ever gave
Laid the mourning child in the parent's grave.





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