A POEM.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE CHRISTIAN EXAMINER.

SIR-I venture to offer for your acceptance the following Poem, composed at a period when the disease to which it principally relates engrossed and appalled every reflecting or serious mind.

The passing away of that calamitous season will, in the esti mation of many, furnish an argument against the publication of this humble effort now.

If it were designed by Providence that the impression of terror, or the loud call to humiliation and repentance before God, should have been as transient as the cloud of Divine wrath, which, in the fearful character of plague, hung successively over the chief cities of our Empire, and the world; I, too, might yield to the same conviction, and suppress my very undeserving and unpretending labour.

But I am far from holding such an opinion. I esteem it rather the bounden duty, as it is, I am sure, the acceptable service, of every persuaded Christian, to be a fellow-worker with the Heavenly Father in perpetuating the memory of his mercies and judgments, and carrying them with power and the Holy Spirit into the careless heart.

Not that I arrogate to the subjoined narrative such efficacy; but request that it be received as written in that hope.

The details are neither entirely imaginary, nor yet altogether true, at least as far as my own experience has reached; possibly real events more than justify the ideas of the writer.

The extract which I make from the very interesting Pamphlet of Dr. J. C. Ferguson, of this City, (Dublin,) describing the ravages of Cholera at Sunderland and Newcastle, in the year 1832, will serve to demonstrate how little fancy can out-run reality, in this instance :

“And how awfully has it ran through whole families. To relate instances would be only to harrow up our feelings unnecessarily. The melancholy truth is unquestioned by any, that within a few short days the mother has been left widowed and childless, the father robbed of the wife he loved, and child in whom were centered all his hopes; perhaps, also, of the friend or relative whose dying hour he had solaced, unconscious and unheeding that from them he was to carry to his home the source of all his misery; the child has been left an orphan, perhaps friendless, and even an entire family extinguished."

I have the honor to be, Sir,

Dublin, Feb. 1, 1834.

Your very obedient servant,

J. S. K.

POEM.

Why speeds the funeral tread,
Your lonely streets among?
Tell, sable servants of the dead,
What freight ye bear along?

We bear a widow's only son,
At morning's dawn his race was run.

Ye bear a widow's only son:

But why no widow's wail?

Not yet two fleeting hours are gone,
The last long death sigh, scarcely flown,
Floats on the trembling gale.

Why bid the scarce cold youth to brave
The terrors of the untimely grave?

Another band draws near!

Pale ministers of fate,
Who sleeps on yonder silent bier,
Array'd in mournful state?

'Twas yestere'en a wedded bride;
The wassail bowl is still undried.

A wedded bride! but where is be

Who pledged the fond, the ardent vow, In health and sickness still to be Unntir'd, unchang'd, unlur'd from thee? False to his pledges now!

Surely no guilty wiles had power

O'er love and truth, at funeral hour.

On the dark pageants roll:

Seems it some noiseless dream: No peals of passing death-bells toll, No sound of woe-born scream.

What bring you now? A father dead :
Five weeping sons stood round his bed.

Five weeping sons! And are there none
To bear him to the grave,
Or mourn that loved existence gone?
Which each, by forfeit of his own,

Had gladly died to save.

Does thirst of gold their hearts inspire,
To snatch the coffers of their sire?

No, stranger, no; such feeble cause
Shakes not the frame of nature's laws;
Or dries the current, deep and strong,
That bears our sympathies along.—
Think'st thou a mother's sobs were still
In such extremity of ill?

Or seize, as food to sate thy scorn,

The bridal night a funeral morn?
Or deem that filial love expires

On the same couch where die the sires.

Oh, hadst thou heard the thrilling shriek,
It seemed as every string would break,
And every chain that binds the heart
To life and hope, asunder part:

Such blast came o'er the mother's joy
When first she mark'd her plague-struck boy.

She saw his smooth and candid brow,
All furrow'd with deep anguish now;
The lustre of his once bright eye
Fast fading in death's agony;
His tuneful voice, which softly fell,
As if some heavenly tale to tell,
In whisp'ring accents feebly tries
To soothe a mother's bursting sighs.
Saw the strong arm, whose ready aid,
A mother's falt'ring footsteps stay'd,
Convuls'd and quiv'ring, low recline,
Widow, more feebly far than thine.

What muse shall paint the varying form
Of grief and passion's changeful storm?
November's blasts, or April's showers;
Ocean's wild waves, when tempest lours;
The clash of billows, as they roar
In thunder, on the surge-worn shore :

So wildly forth, in anguish roll,
The burstings of a mother's soul.

Nor deem it strange, in that dark hour
Of death and woe, if sin had power
And strength allowed, a while to try
A Christian's wav'ring constancy.
Oh, wilt thou leave me? must we part?
Sweet solace of my bleeding heart;

Bright lamp of hope, whose cheering ray
Pour'd on life's night the blaze of day.

Thou only charm that lull'd to rest
The troubles of my aching breast;
Thou only balm that sooth'd the care,
By sorrow fix'd, to rankle there;
Thou only boon which heaven could give,
To bribe my widow'd soul to live.

Sure 'twere enough that I should mourn
The ashes of a consort's urn,

And bathe an infant in my tears,

Scarce reach'd myself to woman's years.
The lovely orphan as it grew,
Would oft its sire's caress renew-
Oft, with a mild enchanting smile,
My lonely bosom's grief beguile;
And haply, by its artless plays,
Recal the bliss of earlier days.

As when the autumn zephyr blows
The leaflets from the withering rose,
The faded fragments idly stray,
Borne from their fragrant home away;
Yet, the fond zephyr's gentle breath
Reveals the freshness still beneath,
Unveils the still unfaded flowers,
Sweet remnant of its summer hours.

Why do destroying angels fall
Upon my life, my hope, my all?
Or deem a widow's mite may be
Cast into death's full treasury?

"But, oh! Redeemer of mankind,
Bring calmness to my troubled mind;
Grant that this suffering soul may be
In glory meet to live with thee.
Purge each foul stain of earthly dross,
And nail it to thy bleeding cross.
Let thy free grace its gifts impart,
To heal the anguish of my heart.
Subdue it to thy heavenly will,

And bid its murmurings "peace, be still.”

While her pale lips pronounc'd the Sacred name, A trembling thrill of well-known presage came; Chill thro' her veins the freezing currents flow; Her failing heart-pulse wavers, faint and slow. On the lov'd form she fix'd her glazing eye,

Kiss'd his wan cheek, and drank his parting sigh.
Low by the couch where all her treasure slept,
In silent prayer the kneeling mother wept.
Her prayer is heard-no murmuring accents fall
In vain rebellion to the heavenly call.
Blessed be thy gracious will, good God, she cried,
Gazed on her son, and as she gazed, he died.

Thou sawest yon scanty train

Wend mournfully its way,

Ne'er shall the darksome tomb contain,
Nor arms of love and youth sustain
A freight more fair than they.

A mingled plume is borne, to wave
Its witness o'er the simple grave.
Sable with argent wreath entwines,
To grace the bier whereon reclines
She, thus too rudely reft of life,
A wedded maid, a virgin wife.

Yes, thou wert fair as ever sun
In his glad course had shone upon;
Fair as in song of minstrels told,
And cast in beauty's perfect mould.
Queen of all hearts; the morning's light
Ne'er beamed on weary traveller's sight,
All glowing in the orient skies,
More joyous than thy sparkling eyes.

And, maiden, tho' thy form was fair,
A mind still lovelier harboured there;
Truth, virtue, innocence, arrayed

In thy sweet voice, their powers displayed;
And Christian love, and hope, confessed

A welcome to thy guileless breast.

He, the fond youth whose favored love
Was blessed that guileless breast to prove;
Tall, graceful, true, his manly form
Bore candour's stamp, and kindness warm,

And trumpet tones of early fame
Spoke the high promise of his name.

And ne'er at Hymen's altar bent

Two kindred hearts more fondly blent.

The bridal banquet now was o'er,
No longer heard the merry strain;
And laugh, and festive song, no more