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Where art
thou, my beloved Son,
Where art thou, worse to me
than dead?
Oh find me, prosperous or undone!
Or,
if the grave be now thy bed,
Why am I ignorant of the
same
That I may rest; and neither blame
Nor sorrow
may attend thy name?
Seven years, alas! to have
received
No tidings of an only child;
To have
despaired, have hoped, believed,
And been for
evermore beguiled, -
Sometimes with thoughts of very
bliss!
I catch at them, and then I miss;
Was ever
darkness like to this?
He was among the prime in
worth,
An object beauteous to behold;
Well born,
well bred; I sent him forth
Ingenuous, innocent, and
bold:
If things ensued that wanted grace,
As hath
been said, they were not base;
And never blush was on
my face.
Ah! little doth the young one dream,
When full of play and childish cares,
What power is
in his wildest scream,
Heard by his mother unawares!
He knows it not, he cannot guess:
Years to a mother
bring distress;
But do not make her love the less.
Neglect me! no, I suffered long
From that ill
thought; and, being blind,
Said "Pride shall help me
in my wrong:
Kind mother have I been, as kind
As
ever breathed:" and that is true;
I've wet my path
with tears like dew,
Weeping for him when no one
knew.
My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,
Hopeless of honour and of gain,
Oh! do not dread thy
mother's door;
Think not of me with grief and pain:
I now can see with better eyes;
And worldly grandeur
I despise,
And fortune with her gifts and lies.
Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings,
And blasts
of heaven will aid their flight;
They mount -how
short a voyage brings
The wanderers back to their
delight!
Chains tie us down by land and sea;
And
wishes, vain as mine, may be
All that is left to
comfort thee.
Perhaps some dungeon hears thee
groan,
Maimed, mangled by inhuman men;
Or thou
upon a desert thrown
Inheritest the lion's den;
Or
hast been summoned to the deep,
Thou, thou, and all
thy mates, to keep
An incommunicable sleep.
I
look for ghosts; but none will force
Their way to me:
'tis falsely said
That there was ever intercourse
Between the living and the dead;
For, surely, then I
should have sight
Of him I wait for day and night,
With love and longings infinite.
My apprehensions
come in crowds;
I dread the rustling of the grass;
The very shadows of the clouds
Have power to shake me
as they pass:
I question things, and do not find
One that will answer to my mind;
And all the world
appears unkind.
Beyond participation lie
My
troubles, and beyond relief:
If any chance to heave a
sigh,
They pity me, and not my grief.
Then come to
me, my Son, or send
Some tidings that my woes may
end;
I have no other earthly friend!
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