The poor sick son and his mother
In their little chamber slept,
The mother of God to their chamber
All lightly, lightly crept.
She bent herself over the sick one,
Her hand with action light
Upon his heart placed softly,
Smiled sweetly and vanish’d from sight.
The mother saw all in her vision,
Saw this and saw much more;
From out of her slumber woke she,
The hounds were baying full sore.
Her son was lying before her,
And dead her son he lay,
While over his pale cheeks gently
The light of morning did play.
Her hands the mother folded,
She felt she knew not how;
With meekness sang she and softly:
“O Mary, blessed be thou!”
THE DREAM.
(From Salon.)
A vision I dreamt of a lovely child.
She wore her hair in tresses;
In the blue nights of summer so calm and mild
We sat in the greenwood’s recesses.
In mutual rapture and torture we vied,
We loved and exchanged loving kisses;
The yellow stars in the heavens all sigh’d
And seem’d to envy our blisses.
I now am awake, and around me gaze
In the darkness, alone and despairing;
The stars in the heavens are shedding their rays
In silence and all-uncaring.