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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=354027" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Mother’s Last Watch</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Written on the occasion of the death of the infant daughter of Her Grace the Duchess of Sutherland. <br>I.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">HARK, through the proudly decorated halls, <br>How strangely sounds the voice of bitter woe, <br>Where steps that dread their echo as it falls <br>Steal silently and sadly to and fro. <br>There, wither'd lies the bud so lately given, <br>And, beautiful in grief as when she smiled, <br>Bow'd 'neath the unexpected stroke of Heaven, <br>The mourning Mother watches o'er her Child. <br>II.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Tis her last Watch! Sleep seals those infant lids, <br>Dark fall the lashes on that roseleaf cheek- <br>But oh!--the look is there, which Hope forbids; <br>Of Death--of Death those heavy eyelids speak!-- <br>'Tis her last Watch!--no more that gentle hand <br>With cautious love shall curtain out the light-- <br>No more that graceful form shall mutely stand <br>And bless thy slumbers thro' the shadowy night. <br>III.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hush'd is the innocent heart which throbbing pain, <br>Vain hope, and vain regret had never moved. <br>The God who gave hath claim'd his gift again, <br>And angels welcome her, on earth so loved. <br>Yet still of hope and fear the endless strife <br>Within that Mother's bosom faintly swells, <br>Still, still she gazes on, and dreams of life, <br>Though the fond falsehood Reason's pow'r repels. <br>IV.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Unheard each word of comfort faintly falls <br>From lips whose tones in other days were dear, <br>Her infant's smile is all her heart recalls,-- <br>Her infant's voice is all her heart can hear;-- <br>She clasps its hand, the feverish glow of hers <br>Wakes into warmth the freezing current's flow; <br>She bends,--her sobbing breath a ringlet stirs <br>With mimic life upon its pallid brow. <br>V.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh! what a mournful thing is human love! <br>In happier days of hope and bliss gone by <br>The Mother's heart with pitying throb would move <br>If but a teardrop dimm'd that laughing eye: <br>And now she prays that Heaven the boon may give <br>To hear from those pale lips a cry of pain-- <br>Aught that could bid her sinking soul revive, <br>And tell the mourner thou wert hers again! <br>VI.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah ! never more that dream of hope may be!-- <br>The summer breeze among the boughs shall wave, <br>The summer sun beam bright o'er land and lea, <br>But thou, no spring shall wake thee from the grave! <br>No more those little rosy lips shall greet <br>With brightly sudden smile her look of pride; <br>No more with falt'ring steps those fairy feet <br>Shall totter onward to her cherish'd side. <br>VII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All, all is over! See, with painful start <br>She wakens from her trance to feel the whole, <br>And know the pang even from thy corse to part-- <br>Thou vainly guarded treasure of her soul! <br>The hand that, ah! so often hath caress'd, <br>Aids now to place thee in thy narrow bed! <br>The last wild kiss upon thy cheek is press'd-- <br>The last fond tear upon thy coffin shed! <br>And all is hush'd: but oft thro' Life's dull track <br>(When time her present sorrow hath beguiled) <br>That pale, sweet brow shall dimly bring us back <br>The Mother's last Watch o'er her fairy Child!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Caroline+Elizabeth+Sarah+Norton">Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=354027" data-title="The Mother’s Last Watch de Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton" data-description="Written on the occasion of the death of the infant daughter of Her Grace the Duchess of Sutherland. 
I.

HARK, through the proudly decorated halls, 
How strangely sounds the voice of bitter woe, 
Where steps that dread their echo as it falls 
Stea..."></div>
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