Poem by Caroline Fry (Wilson)

The Complaint

O YOU who at lighter afflictions repine,
Arrest your complainings and list ye to mine,
And you who can sorrow for every toy,
Hear a mother's lament for her poor idiot boy.

Still memory tells of that moment of bliss,
When I press'd on his forehead a mother's first kiss,
When committing the gift to the hand that had given,
A mother's first prayer sought acceptance in heaven.

I ask'd not for beauty, I ask'd not for wealth,
The prayer was for reason, contentment, and health,
That reflection might temper the fervour of youth,
And his heart be the seat of religion and truth.

My babe he was lovely in infantine charms,
And often, as sweetly he slept on my arms;
O God! I exclaimed, what delight it will be
To rear him to virtue, to truth, and to thee!

And fondly I waited the moment so dear,
When my baby should part from my arms with a tear,
When his sweet voice should greet me with of joy,
But none were reserved for my poor idiot boy.

When the glittering trinket was held in his sight,
My infant would utter no scream of delight;
When gently compelled from my bosom to part,
No cry of unwillingness gladdened my heart.

His lovely blue eyes never wander'd around,
To seek for his mother, or greet her when found:
These promised delights were not mine to enjoy,
All arms were alike to my poor idiot boy.

His accent was plaintive, distressful, and weak,
No tear of emotion e'er stole on his cheek,
Nor frown ever sate on his forehead of snow,
Nor flush of desire was traced on his brow.

The first year, the second, my grief was beguil'd
With the fond hope that reason would dawn on my child:
But hope is no longer,for seven sad years
He has lain on my bosom, bedewed with my tears.

In vain I caress him and lure him to speak,
He feels not the warm tear that falls on his cheek:
No look of intelligence lightens his eye,
A wild, vacant stare is his only reply.

Then grant me, O God! 'tis a mother's last prayer,
The solace of death with my infant to share;
No pause of affliction is mine to enjoy,
Till I sleep in the grave of my poor idiot boy.

1. On Hearing the Song of a Bird One Cold Sabbath Evening in February
2. The Twin Roses
3. Humility
4. The Harp of Judah
5. Nature

Mark Akenside The Complaint ("AWAY! away!")

Print

1345 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version