The Lost Sister

They wak'd me from my sleep, I knew not why,And bade me haste where a pale midnight lampGleam'd from an inner chamber. There she lay,With livid brow who yestermorn breath'd forthThrough joyous smiles her superflux of blissInto the hearts of others. By her sideHer hoary sire, with speechless horror gaz'dUpon the stricken idol, all dismay'dBeneath his God's rebuke. And she who nurs'dThat fair young creature at her gentle breast,And oft those sunny locks had deck'd with budsOf rose and jasmine, shuddering wip'd the dewsWhich death distils.The sufferer just had givenHer long farewell, and for the last, last timePress'd with cold lips his cheek who led so lateHer footsteps to the altar, and receiv'dIn the deep transport of an ardent heartHer vow of love. And she had softly press'dThat golden circlet with her bloodless handUpon his finger, which he kneeling gaveOn the bright, bridal morn. So, there she layIn calm endurance, like the smitten lambWounded in flowery pastures, from whose breastThe dreaded bitterness of death had past.—But a faint wail disturb'd the silent scene,And in its nurse's arms, a new-born babeWas borne in utter helplessness along,Before that dying eye.

Its gather'd filmKindled one moment, with a sudden glowOf tearless agony,—and fearful pangsRacking the rigid features, told how strongA mother's love doth root itself. One cryOf bitter anguish, blent with fervent prayerWent up to Heaven,—and as its cadence sank,Her spirit enter'd there.

Morn after mornRose and retir'd,—yet still as in a dreamI seem'd to move. The certainty of lossFell not at once upon me. Then I weptAs weep the sisterless. For thou wert fledMy only, my belov'd,—my sainted one,Twin of my spirit! and my number'd daysMust wear the sable of that midnight hourWhich rent thee from me.