Death of a Young Wife

Why is the green earth broken? Yon tall grassWhich in its ripeness woo'd the mower's hand,And the wild rose, whose young buds faintly bloom'd,Why are their roots uptorn? Why swells a moundOf new-made turf among them?Ask of himWho in his lonely chamber weeps so longAt morning's dawn and evening's pensive hour,Whose bosom's planted hopes might scarcely boastMore firmness, than yon riven flower of grass.Yet hath not Memory stores whereon to feed,When Joy's young harvest fails as clings the beeTo the sweet calyx of some smitten flower?—Still is remembrance,—grief. The tender smileOf young, confiding Love, its winning tones,

Its self-devotion, its delight to seekAnother's good, its ministry to soothThe hour of pain, come o'er the hermit heartTo claim its bitterest tear.But that meek Faith,Which all distrustful of its holiest deedsSo strongly clasp'd a Saviour's feet, when DeathRang the crush'd heart-strings like a broken harp,That Hope which shed its seraph-benisonOn all who wept around, that smile which leftHeaven's stainless semblance on the breathless clay,These are the tokens to the soul bereav'd,To gird itself invincibly, and seekA deathless union with the parted bride.