MADAM POND,

Would any think who marked the smile

On yon untroubled face,

That threescore years and ten had fled

Without a wrinkling trace?

Yet age doth sometimes skill to guard

The beauty of its prime,

And hold a quenchless lamp above

The water-floods of time.

And she, for whom we mourn, maintained

Through every change and care,

Those hallowed virtues of the soul

That keep the features fair.

They raised a little child to look

Into the coffin deep,

Who dream'd the lovely lady lay

But in a transient sleep,

And gazed upon the face of death

With eye of tranquil ray,

Well pleased, as with the snowy flowers,

That on her bosom lay.

Then on the sad procession moved,

And mid funereal gloom,

The only son was there to lay

His mother in the tomb.

Oh, memories of an only child,

How strong and rich ye are!

A wealth of concentrated love

That none beside can share.

And hence, the filial grief that swells,

When breaks its latest tie,

Flows onward with a fuller tide

Than meets the common eye.

With voice of holy prayer she pass'd

Forth from her pleasant door,

Where tender recollections dwell

Though she returns no more.

Even so the pure and pious rise

From tents of pain and woe,

But leave a precious transcript here

To guide us where they go.