The Dying Wife (poetry)

1878

The Dying Wife.

Lay the gem upon my bosom,
Let me feel her warm breath,
For a strong chill o'er me passes,
And I know it is death.
I would gaze upon the treasure—
Scarcely given ere I go—
Feel her rosy, dimpled fingers
Wander o'er my cheek of snow,

I am passing through the waters,
But a blessed shore appears;
Kneel beside me, husband, dearest,
Let me kiss away thy tears;
Wrestle with thy grief, my husband,
Strive from midnight unto day;
It may leave an angel's blessing
When it vanishes away.

Lay the gem upon my bosom,
'Tis not long she can be there,
See! how to my heart she nestles,
'Tis the pearl I love to wear.
If in after years beside thee,
Sits another in my chair,
Though her voice be sweeter music,
And her face than mine more fair;

If a cherub call thee "Father,"
Far more beautiful than this,
Love thy first-born, oh! my husband!
Turn not from the motherless;
Tell her something of her mother—
You may call her by my name!
Shield her from the winds of sorrow!
If she errs, oh! gently blame.

Lead her sometimes, where I am sleeping
I will answer if she calls,
And my breath will stir her ringlets,
When my voice in blessing falls;
Then her soft black eyes will brighten,
And shall wonder whence it came;
In her heart when years pass o'er her
She will find her mother's name.

It is said that every mortal
Walks between two angels here;
One records the ill, but blots it,
If before the midnight drear
Man repenteth — if uncancelled,
Then the right-hand angel weepeth,
Bowing low with veiled eyes.

I will be her right hand angel,
Sealing up the good for Heaven;
Striving that the midnight watches
Find no misdeeds unforgiven.
You will not forget me, husband,
When I am sleeping 'neath the sod;
Oh, love the jewel to us given
As I love thee — next to God!