Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE MOURNER, by GEORGE CRABBE Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Yes! There are real mourners, - I have seen Last Line: While visions please her, and while woes destroy. Subject(s): Farewell; Mourning; Parting; Bereavement | ||||||||
YES! there are real mourners,I have seen A fair sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene; Attention (through the day) her duties claimed, And to be useful as resigned she aimed; Neatly she drest, nor vainly seemed t' expect Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect; But when her wearied parents sunk to sleep, She sought her place to meditate and weep; Then to her mind was all the past displayed, That faithful memory brings to sorrow's aid: For then she thought on one regretted youth, Her tender trust, and his unquestioned truth; In every place she wandered, where they 'd been, And sadly-sacred held the parting scene, Where last for sea he took his leave; that place With double interest would she nightly trace! Happy he sailed, and great the care she took That he should softly sleep and smartly look; White was his better linen, and his check Was made more trim than any on the deck; And every comfort men at sea can know Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow: For he to Greenland sailed, and much she told, How he should guard against the climate's cold; Yet saw not danger; dangers he 'd withstood, Nor could she trace the fever in his blood. His messmates smiled at flushings on his cheek, And he too smiled, but seldom would he speak; For now he found the danger, felt the pain, With grievous symptoms he could not explain. He called his friend, and prefaced with a sigh A lover's message,"Thomas, I must die; Would I could see my Sally, and could rest My throbbing temples on her faithful breast, And gazing go!if not, this trifle take, And say, till death I wore it for her sake: Yes! I must dieblow on, sweet breeze, blow on! Give me one look before my life be gone! O, give me that, and let me not despair! One last fond look!and now repeat the prayer." He had his wish, had more: I will not paint The lovers' meeting; she beheld him faint, With tender fears, she took a nearer view, Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew; He tried to smile; and, half succeeding, said, "Yes! I must die"and hope forever fled. Still, long she nursed him; tender thoughts meantime Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime. To her he came to die, and every day She took some portion of the dread away; With him she prayed, to him his Bible read, Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head: She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer, Apart she sighed; alone, she shed the tear; Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave. One day he lighter seemed, and they forgot The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot. A sudden brightness in his look appeared, A sudden vigor in his voice was heard; She had been reading in the Book of Prayer, And led him forth, and placed him in his chair. Lively he seemed, and spake of all he knew, The friendly many, and the favorite few; ..... but then his hand she prest, And fondly whispered, "Thou must go to rest." "I go," he said; but as he spoke, she found His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound; Then gazed affrighted; but she caught a last, A dying look of love, and all was past! She placed a decent stone his grave above, Neatly engraved,an offering of her love: For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed, Awake alike to duty and the dead; She would have grieved, had friends presumed to spare The least assistance,'t was her proper care. Here will she come, and on the grave will sit, Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit: But if observer pass, will take her round, And careless seem, for she would not be found; Then go again, and thus her hours employ, While visions please her, and while woes destroy. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HUNGERFIELD by ROBINSON JEFFERS THE MOURNER by LOUISE MOREY BOWMAN HECUBA MOURNS by MARILYN NELSON THERE IS NO GOD BUT by AGHA SHAHID ALI IF I COULD MOURN LIKE A MOURNING DOVE by FRANK BIDART THE BOROUGH: LETTER 22. POOR OF THE BOROUGH. PETER GRIMES by GEORGE CRABBE |
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