Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE MOURNING DAUGHTER, by LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE MOURNING DAUGHTER, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Wheels o'er the pavement roll'd, and a slight form
Last Line: The chasten'd wisdom of attemper'd bliss.
Subject(s): Fathers & Daughters; Mourning; Bereavement


WHEELS o'er the pavement roll'd, and a slight form,
Just in the bud of blushing womanhood,
Reach'd the paternal threshold. Wrathful night
Muffled the timid stars, and rain-drops hung
On that fair creature's rich and glossy curls.
She stood and shiver'd, but no mother's hand
Dried those damp tresses, and with warm caress
Sustain'd the weary spirit. No, that hand
Was with the cold, dull earth worm.
Gray and sad,
The tottering nurse rose up, and that old man,
The soldier-servant who had train'd the steeds
Of her slain brothers for the battle field,
Essay'd to lead her to the couch of pain,
Where her sick father pined.
Oft had he yearn'd
For her sweet presence, oft in midnight's watch,
Mus'd of his dear one's smile, till dreams restor'd
The dove-like dalliance of her ruby lip
Breathing his woes away. While distant far,
She, patient student, bending o'er her tasks,
Toil'd for the fruits of knowledge, treasuring still,
In the heart's casket, his approving word
And the pure music of the welcome home,
Rich payment of her labors.
But there came
A summons of surprise, and on the wings
Of filial love she hasted. 'Twas too late;
The lamp of life still burned, yet 'twas too late.
The mind had pass'd away, and who could call
Its wing from out the sky?
For the embrace
Of strong idolatry, was but the glare
Of a fix'd vacant eye. Disease had dealt
A fell assassin's blow. Oh God! the blight
That fell on those fresh hopes, when all in vain
The passive hand was grasp'd and the wide halls
Re-echoed "father! father!"
Through the shades
Of that long, silent night, she sleepless bent;
Bathing with tireless hand the unmov'd brow,
And the death-pillow smoothing. When fair morn
Came with its rose tint up, she shrieking clasp'd
Her hands in joy, for its reviving ray
Flush'd that wan brow, as if with one brief trace
Of waken'd intellect. 'Twas seeming all,
And Hope's fond vision faded, as the day
Rode on in glory.
Eve, her curtain drew
And found that pale and beautiful watcher there,
Still unreposing. Restless on his couch
Toss'd the sick man. Cold lethargy had steep'd
Its last dead poppy in his heart's red stream,
And agony was stirring Nature up
To struggle with her foe.
"Father in heaven!
Oh give him sleep!" sigh'd an imploring voice,
And then she ran to hush the measur'd tick
Of the dull night-clock, and to scare the owl
That, clinging to the casement, hoarsely pour'd
A boding note. But soon, from that lone couch
A hollow groan announc'd the foe that strikes
But once.
They bore the fainting girl away,
And paler than that ashen corse, her face
Half by a flood of ebon tresses hid
Droop'd o'er the old nurse's shoulder. It was sad
To see a young heart breaking, while the old
Sank down to rest.
There was another change.
The mournful bell toll'd out the funeral hour,
And groups came gathering to the gate where stood
The sable hearse. Friends throng'd with heavy hearts,
And curious villagers, intent to scan
The lordly mansion, and cold worldly men,
Even o'er the coffin and the warning shroud,
Revolving selfish schemes.
But one was there,
To whom all earth could render nothing back,
Like that pale changeless brow. Calmly she stood,
As marble statue. Not one trickling tear,
Or trembling of the eye-lid told she liv'd,
Or tasted sorrow. The old house-dog came,
Pressing his rough head to her snowy palm,
All unreproved.
He for his master mourn'd;
And could she spurn that faithful friend, who oft
His shaggy length through many a fireside hour
Stretch'd at her father's feet? who round his bed
Of sickness watch'd with wistful, wondering eye
Of earnest sympathy? No, round his neck
Her infant arms had clasp'd, and still he rais'd
His noble front beside her, proud to guard
The last, lov'd relic of his master's house.

The deadly calmness of that mourner's brow
Was a deep riddle to the lawless thought
Of whispering gossips. Of her sire they spake,
Who suffer'd not the winds of heaven to touch
The tresses of his darling, and who dream'd
In the warm passion of his heart's sole love
She was a mate for angels. Bold they gaz'd
Upon her tearless cheek, and, murmuring, said,
"How strange that he should be so lightly mourn'd."
Oh woman, oft misconstrued! the pure pearls
Lie all too deep in thy heart's secret well,
For the unpausing and impatient hand
To win them forth. In that meek maiden's breast
Sorrow and loneliness sank darkly down,
Though the blanch'd lips breath'd out no boisterous plaint
Of common grief.
Even on to life's decline,
Through all the giddy round of prosperous years,
The birth of new affections, and the joys
That cluster round earth's favorites, there walk'd
Still at her side, the image of her sire,
As in that hour, when his cold, glazing eye
Met hers, and knew her not. When her full cup
Perchance had foam'd with pride, that icy glance
Checking its effervescence, taught her soul
The chasten'd wisdom of attemper'd bliss.





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