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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395935" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Mourner</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yes! there are real mourners - I have seen<br>A fair, sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene;<br>Attention (through the day) her duties claim'd,<br>And to be useful as resign'd she aim'd;<br>Neatly she dress'd, not vainly seem'd t' expect <br>Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect;<br>But when her wearied parents sunk to sleep,<br>She sought her place to meditate and weep; <br>Then to her mind was all the past display'd,<br>That faithful memory brings to sorrow's aid:<br>For then she thought on one regretted youth,<br>Her tender trust, and his unquestion'd truth;<br>In ev'ry place she wander'd, where they'd been,<br>And sadly-sacred held the parting scene; <br>Where last for sea he took his leave - that place<br>With double interest would she nightly trace;<br>For long the courtship was, and he would say,<br>Each time he sail'd, - 'This once, and then the day:'<br>Yet prudence tarried, but when last he went,<br>He drew from pitying love a full consent.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Happy he sail'd, and great the care she took,<br>That he could softly sleep, and smartly look;<br>White was his better linen, and his check<br>Was made more trim than any on the deck;<br>And every comfort men at sea can know, <br>Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow:<br>For he to Greenland sail'd, and much she told, <br>How he should guard against the climate's cold;<br>Yet saw not danger; dangers he'd withstood,<br>Nor could she trace the fever in his blood:<br>His messmates smiled at flushings in his cheek,<br>And he, too, smiled, but seldom would he speak,<br>For now he found the danger, felt the pain, <br>With grievous symptoms he could not explain;<br>Hope was awaken'd, as for home he sail'd, <br>But quickly sank, and never more prevail'd.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He call'd his friend, and prefaced with a sigh<br>A lover's message - 'Thomas, I must die:<br>Would I could see my Sally, and could rest<br>My throbbing temples on her faithful breast,<br>And gazing go! - if not, this trifle take,<br>And say till death I wore it for her sake;<br>Yes! I must die - blow on, sweet breeze, blow on<br>Give me one look, before my life be gone; <br>Oh! give me that, and let me not despair, <br>One last fond look - and now repeat the prayer.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He had his wish, had more; I will not paint<br>The lovers' meeting: she beheld him faint, -<br>With tender fears, she took a nearer view,<br>Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew; <br>He tried to smile, and, half succeeding, said,<br>'Yes! I must die,' and hope for ever fled.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Still long she nursed him; tender thoughts meantime<br>Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime.<br>To her he came to die, and every day<br>She took some portion of the dread away;<br>With him she pray'd, to him his Bible read,<br>Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head:<br>She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer;<br>Apart she sigh'd; alone, she shed the tear;<br>Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave<br>Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">One day he lighter seem'd, and they forgot<br>The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot;<br>They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to think,<br>Yet said not so - 'Perhaps he will not sink:'<br>A sudden brightness in his look appear'd,<br>A sudden vigour in his voice was heard; - <br>She had been reading in the book of prayer,<br>And led him forth, and placed him in his chair;<br>Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew,<br>The friendly many, and the favourite few;<br>Nor one that day did he to mind recall,<br>But she has treasured, and she loves them all;<br>When in her way she meets them, they appear<br>Peculiar people - death has made them dear. <br>He named his friend, but then his hand she prest,<br>And fondly whisper'd, 'Thou must go to rest;'<br>'I go,' he said; but as he spoke, she found<br>His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound;<br>Then gazed affrighten'd; but she caught a last,<br>A dying look of love, and all was past!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She placed a decent stone his grave above,<br>Neatly engraved - an offering of her love;<br>For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed,<br>Awake alike to duty and the dead;<br>She would have grieved, had friends presumed to spare<br>The least assistance - 'twas her proper care.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here will she come and on the grave will sit,<br>Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit;<br>But if observer pass, will take her round,<br>And careless seem, for she would not be found;<br>Then go again, and thus her hour employ,<br>While visions please her, and while woes destroy.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=George+Crabbe">George Crabbe</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=395935" data-title="The Mourner de George Crabbe" data-description="Yes! there are real mourners - I have seen
A fair, sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene;
Attention (through the day) her duties claim'd,
And to be useful as resign'd she aim'd;
Neatly she dress'd, not vainly seem'd t' expect 
Pity for grief, or p..."></div>
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