Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO THE BUST OF MY SON CHARLES, by DAVID MACBETH MOIR


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO THE BUST OF MY SON CHARLES, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Fair image of our sainted boy
Last Line: Farewell!—dear boy, farewell!
Alternate Author Name(s): Delta
Subject(s): Boys; Children - Lost; Death; Family Life; Farewell; Heaven; Dead, The; Relatives; Parting; Paradise


———Tender was the time,
When we two parted, ne'er to meet again!
HOME.

I.

FAIR image of our sainted boy,
Whose beauty calmly shows,
Blent with life's sunny smiles of joy,
Death's most serene repose—
I gaze upon thee, overcast
With sweet, sad memories of the past;
Visions which owed to thee their birth,
And, for a while, made Heaven of earth,
Return again in hues of light,
To melt my heart, yet mock my sight,
And sink amid the rayless gloom,
Which shadows thy untimely tomb.
Our fair, fond boy! and can it be,
That this pale mould of clay
Is all that now remains of thee,
So loving, loved, and gay?

II.

The past awakens—thou art there
Before me, even now—
The silken locks of sunny hair,
Thrown backward from thy brow—
Thy full white brow of sinless thought;
Thy cheeks by smiles to dimples wrought;
Thy radiant eyes, to which were given
The blue of autumn's midnight heaven;
Thy rose-bud mouth, whose voice's tone
Made every household heart thine own,
Our fondling child, our winning boy,
Whose thoughts, words, looks, were all of joy—
Yes! there thou art, from death come back;
And vainly we deplore,
That earth had once a flowery track,
Which ne'er shall blossom more!

III.

A fresh life renovates dull earth,
Now spring renews the world;
The little birds in joy sing forth,
'Mid leaflets half uncurl'd;—
But, Charlie, where art thou? We see
The snowdrops fade, uncull'd by thee;
We hear no more thy feet—thy voice—
Sweet sounds that made our hearts rejoice;
And every dear, familiar spot
Says—here thou wert, who now art not;
Thy beauty is a blossom crush'd;
Thy being is a fountain hush'd;
We look—we long for thee in vain—
The dearest soonest die!
And bankrupt Age but finds the brain
In all its sluices dry.

IV.

Methinks the afternoons come back,
When, perch'd upon my knee,
Renew'd in heart, I roam'd the track
Of fairy-land with thee;
Or told of Joseph, when, within
The sack of little Benjamin,
The cup was found, and how he strove
In vain to smother filial love;
Or Joshua and his mail-clad men;
Or Daniel in the lions' den;
Or Jonah whelm'd beneath the sea;
Or Absalom, when to the tree
Fix'd by his tresses floating wild,
Until by Joab slain!
While David mourn'd his rebel child
The more—because in vain!

V.

And sweet it was, on summer days,
To saunter through the park,
Amid the frisking lambs at graze,
And listen to the lark;
While thou wouldst run before, behind,
Blue-bell and butter-cup to find;
A gaysome elf, whose heart had ne'er
Been tamed by grief, or scathed by fear:
I see thy flush'd and open brow;
I hear thy soft voice, even now;
And scent the wild-flowers bright and bland,
Compress'd within thy warm white hand.
Still bloom the daisies there; the bee
Booms round each fragrant spot;
The small birds sing from bush and tree;
And only thou art not!

VI.

Thy voice was like a summer brook,
For ever singing on;
And every thing around thee took
From happiness its tone:
We think of thee, and of the blue
Bright heaven, with sunshine streaming thro';
Of blossom'd groves; of oceans calm;
Of zephyrs breathing nought but balm;
Thy life was bliss—and can it be,
That only now remains for thee
The grave's blank horror, the despair
Of silence, that endureth there?
And is this love which shall decay
Only with being's breath,
But wasted on a thing of clay,
That sleeps in endless death?

VII.

No, Charlie, thus it cannot be:—
And, gazing on thy bust,
I would not stop to dream of thee,
As perishable dust;
Open'd for thee the golden doors
Of Heaven, thy feet are on its floors,
With jasper, beryl, and gems inlaid,
To which our sunshine is like shade;
And all we dream of bright and fair
For evermore are with thee there;
A halo glows around thy brow;
The seraphs are thy playmates now.—
It must be so—and dear, fond boy,
If glad and glorious thus,
'Twere sin to wish thee back from joy,
To pain and care with us!

VIII.

A year hath circled since that day—
That day of doleful gloom,
When thou wert rapt from earth away,
In beauty's opening bloom;
That day of woe, when, horror-smote,
To know, to feel, that thou wert not,
We hung above thy bed of death,
And listen'd to thy last low breath,
And linger'd, nor would turn away,
To own thee but a thing of clay!
That day when thou did'st ope thine eyes
In bliss—an angel in the skies!
Oh blind, blank hour for us! Oh dawn
Of endless life for thee!
Noon saw thy soul from earth withdrawn,
Night, at the Saviour's knee.

IX.

Farewell, sweet loan divine, which Heaven,
Beholding that man's heart
Less loved the Giver than the given,
Took to itself apart!
The waves of Time roll on—its sea
Still bears us more remote from thee,
As hour on hour, and day on day,
Melt in the spectral past away.
Yet art thou like a star on high,
To lure from earth the mental eye;
And I would hate my heart, if e'er
Its love of thee it could outwear:
No! in its core, aye to remain,
Thy sainted form shall dwell,
Until on high we meet again:—
Farewell!—dear boy, Farewell!





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