The Son Of The Widow

By Lydia Howard Sigourney

The only son of his mother, and she a widow.

He languished by the wayside, and fell down
Before the noon-day. In his hand were flowers
Pledg'd to his lady-love. They died with him,
Like her young joys.

There was a widow'd form,
To whom the echo of his coming step
Had been as music. Now, alone she sits,
Tearful and pale. The world, henceforth, to her,
Is desolate and void.

Young love may weep,
But sunbeams dry its tears, and the quick pulse
Of hope, in beauty's bosom, overcomes
Tie syncope of grief.

But unto Age,
So utterly bereav'd, --- what more remains,
Save with bow'd head, and finger on its lip
In silent meekness, and in sanctity,
The heavenly pilot ever in its view,
To pass the narrow, storm-swoln strait that bars
Time from Eternity.