TWO POEMS OF PAULINA TENNANT McCLURE

LINES TO A MOTHER ON THE DEATH OF HER SON

Thou weepest, childless mother,
Ay, weep, 'twill ease thine heart;
He was thy first born son,
Thy first, thy lovely one;
’Tis hard from him to part!

’Tis hard to lay thy darling
Deep in the damp, cold earth,
His vacant chair to see.
His silent nursery,
Once gladsome with his mirth.

To meet again in slumber,
His dear mouth’s rosy lips;
Then wakened with a start,
By thine own throbbing heart,
His twining arms to miss!

To feel (half conscious why)
A dull heart-sinking weight,
'Till memory on thy soul,
Flashes the painful whole,
That thou are desolate!

And then to lie and weep,
And think the live-long night,
(Feeding thine own distress,
With accurate greediness.)
Of every past delight.

Of all his winning ways,
His pretty, playful smiles,
His joy at sight of thee,
His tricks, his mimicry,
And all his little wiles!

Oh! there are recollections
Round mother’s heart to cling;
That mingle with the tears,
And smiles of after years,
With soft awakening.

But thou wilt then, fond mother!
In after years look back,
Time brings such wondrous easing,
With sadness, not unpleasing,
E’en on this gloomy track.

Thou’ll say: My first-born blessing,
It almost broke my heart,
When thou wert forced to go;
And yet, for thee, I knew,
’Twas better to depart.

God took thee in His mercy,
A lamb, untasked, untried;
He fought the fight for thee,
He won the victory,
And thou art sanctified.

I look around and see,
The evil ways of men;
And oh! beloved child!
I’m more than reconciled
To thy departure then.

The little arms that clasped me,
The innocent lips that pressed,
Would they have been so pure
’Till now, as when of yore,
I lulled thee on my breast?"

From Paulina McClure
To Mary A. C. Keet


Why should I weep to leave the vine
Whose clusters oeʼr me bend?
Thy myrtle, let me call it mine,
The flowers I love to tend.

A thousand thoughts of all things dear
Like shadows o’er me sweep,
I leave my little children here,
But wherefore should I weep?

I leave thee sister; we have played
These many a pleasant hour
‘Neath silvery groves and olive shades
And holy happy bowers.

Yes, thou and I, by streams and shore
In song and prayer and sleep
Have been as we shall be no more;
But wherefore should I weep?

Mother, I know thy wounded breast
Will ope its fount of woe,
But I shall gain the pilgrim’s rest,
Dear mother, let me go.

Weep not for me, my husband dear,
I go to realms of Love
Still serve the Lord with humble fear
Till we meet above.

Paulina Tennant was the wife of William McClure, and mother of Rev. W. T. McClure. This poem was written a short time before her death.