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Poem by John Pierpont
Her Chosen Spot
While yet she lived, she walked alone Among these shades. A voice divine Whispered,-'This spot shall be thine own; Here shall thy wasting form recline, Beneath the shadow of this pine.' 'Thy will be done!' the sufferer said.- This spot was hallowed from that hour; And, in her eyes, the evening's shade And morning's dew this green spot made More lovely than her bridal bower. By the pale moon,-herself more pale And spirit-like,-these walks she trod; And, while no voice, from swell or vale, Was heard, she knelt upon this sod And gave her spirit back to God. That spirit, with an angel's wings, Went up from the young mother's bed. So, heavenward, soars the lark and sings;- She's lost to earth and earthly things;- But 'weep not, for she is not dead, She sleepeth!'-Yea, she sleepeth here, The first that in these grounds hath slept. This grave, first watered with the tear That child or widowed man hath wept, Shall be by heavenly watchmen kept. The babe that lay on her cold breast,- A rose-bud, dropped on drifted snow,- Its young hand in its father's pressed, Shall learn that she, who first caressed Its infant cheek, now sleeps below. And often shall he come alone, When not a sound but evening's sigh Is heard, and, bowing by the stone That bears his mother's name, with none But God and guardian angels nigh, Shall say,-'This was my mother's choice For her own grave,-O, be it mine! Even now, methinks, I hear her voice Calling me hence, in the divine And mournful whisper of this pine.'
John Pierpont's other poems:
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