The Bereaved One

THERE comes a Wanderer, worn and weary,
To a cottage on the wold —
"Mother dear! — the night is dreary,
And I arn wet and cold,
For I have been through rain and mire;
Mother dear, it blows a storm!
Let me in, I pray, to warm
My fingers by the fire!"

The door is opened — not by her —
A little boy, wellnigh a child,
Looks up into the Wanderer's face
With a look so soft and mild! —
He was like a messenger
Sent from some pure sphere above,
Unto Man's unhappy race,
On an embassy of love!

"Come in, good man," he said; — " what dost
Thou out on such a night as this?
O, I was dreaming wondrous things!
Medreamt that I had left and lost
My happy home mid all my hliss;
So I wept and could not rest, —
Then came one with golden wings,
And took me to my father's breast."

The "Wanderer's tears are flowing fast;
He doth not speak, he clasps his hands,
But grief breaks forth in speech at last —
"And, dearest child, where is thy father?" — •
— " Amid a shadowy group he stands,
And a moony light reposes
On his face, but I would rather
Be with him than pulling roses!"

"And thy mother, — what of her?" —
"0! often when the night is falling,
When the wind moans through the fir,
I can hear her dear voice calling
From her far-off home to me:
I think this cottage was too small
For father, sister, her and all,
And so they left it, all the three."

— "Ha, what!— thy sister also?— Speak!" —
— " Good man, I see thou knewest her, then.
The bloom soon faded from her cheek,
But now she dwells beyond the moon;
She could not stay, she told me, when
Our mother and our father went;
Down in the vale, to-morrow noon,
They'll point thee out her monument."

— " And, tell me, darling child! — who sleeps
Within the grave beside the stream,
Where the sun can seldom beam,
And the willow ever weeps?
The burial-stone rose blank and bare." —
Here wept the child, and then he said,
"They say my brother's wife is dead,
Because she slumbers there.

"My brother Walter went abroad,
And never more came back,
And then his wife grew pale and wan,
She said her heart was on the rack,
And Life was now a weary load;
And so she lingered, lingered on,
Until a year or two ago,
When Death released her from her woe."

Thus far will Walter hear — no more:
He presses once his brother's hand,
Then, wandering forth amid the roar
Of wind and rain he seeks the river,
And, having one brief minute scanned,
Silently, and calm of eye,
The broad black mass of cloud on high,
He plunges in the waves for ever!