The Widow Poem by Robert Anderson

Why sighs yon wretched being, whose patch'd weeds
Shield not her shrivell'd body from the blast,
Who oft along the pathway's frozen side,
In vain for fuel seeks?--Why from her eyes,
That languid turn to Heav'n, imploring rest,
Adown their well--known course fall the big tears?

She weeps not at her growing poverty,
Nor envies e'er the splendour of the world;
But, mourning, sighs for long departed joys:
Alas! her all is gone!--No monarch's wealth
Can to her mind lost happiness restore;
Since he, her only hope, her only pride,
Her only son, her age's sole support,
Torn from his home, soon fill'd a wat'ry grave.

An aged Widow, much she lov'd to gaze
On him, a father's image. He, in youth,
Regardless of all else, save one, would toil
With his companion, chearfulness, the day;
And oft the mountain's rugged brow he'd climb,
To mark his distant dear--lov'd humble cot,
And think with pleasure on his boyish years,
Life's happy morn, when care gives way to mirth:
Then would he anxious cull each wild--flow'r fair,
Type of her beauty that had fir'd his breast;
And proud was he at evening to behold
A parent's fondness in a parent's smiles;
A cot, the humble dwelling of content;
And one, the sharer of his infant sports,
His Mary; child of innocence, whose face
Was fair, and seem'd the index of a mind,
Pure as the unsullied snow--drop, gentle flow'r,
The timid harbinger of welcome Spring,
That drooping, chides dull Winter as it dies.

Robb'd of her William, she would sit and weep,
And think of him, and vainly try to sing;
Then gaze with tears upon the braided hair:
Now stop her wheel, and with an anxious look,
Enquire of many a wand'rer by her home,
The news, heart--rending news, of murd'rous war;
And if perchance some letter'd hind should read
With joyous stare, full of anxiety,
The list of bloodshed, gazetted bombast,
Then would poor Mary tremble, with deep sighs,
While down her cheek roll'd many a pearly tear;
For she had learn'd to feel for others' woe.
Oft while the villagers at ease were laid
In sleep's soft lap, she'd listen to the wind,
Whose hollow murmurs chill'd her heart with fear;
Then think of dangers he'd to undergo,
And sleepless, welcome morning's slow approach.
But soon the rose fled from her beauteous cheek,
And left the lily mourning for its loss;
A prey to sorrow Mary ling'ring fell,
Wept and lamented by the rustics round.
Sad was the slow procession; dull each look,
As thro' the lanes they bore this wither'd bud,
To the low house whose steeple points to Heav'n:
And when the coffin to the earth was giv'n,
At ``dust to dust,'' the Curate, pious guide,
Let fall a tear.
The Sexton, grey in years,
Whose look observ'd he'd long forgot to feel,
Reclining on his spade, e'en heav'd a sigh:
And as the sprig of box flew to the grave,
The village train, the feeble, and the young,
Blest Mary, virtuous maid, for ever gone.

The tidings never reach'd her William's ear,
For he too fell; unwilling sacrifice
To wild ambition, and ere death's cold hand
Snatch'd from his youthful cheek its wonted bloom,
In falt'ring accents, with uplifted eyes,
He call'd to Heav'n a parent to defend;
Then prostrate on the deck, midst comrades brave,
Sunk, oft repeating his lov'd Mary's name.--
Thus fall our hardy brethren, innocent,
To please ambition in its foul career!

'Tis she, his mother, who, with tott'ring steps,
Unknowing whither, o'er the wild heath strays,
And, to the flocks, and tenants of the groves,
Talks many an hour away. One comrade still
She keeps, a fond, half--starv'd, but faithful brute.
Tray was her William's once, and leaves her not;
But licks the hand which seldom holds him food.
In roofless cot, alas! poor Margaret lives,
A joy--forsaken, faded, mark of woe;

Of reason reft, and robb'd of ev'ry stay,
Save Him who registers pale misery's cry,
And marks each hour of anguish. Oft with tears,
She to the stranger tells a broken tale;
Amidst her sighs pouring to Heav'n a pray'r,
To shed its vengeance on their guilty heads,
Who glory in destruction. Happiness,
She knows the world, unfeeling, cannot give
To her pain'd bosom; and for charity,
The mourner asketh never. Woe--worn wretch!
Like thee what numbers drink the cup of grief,
And sorrow ever nurse; perchance to feed
The growing evils of a falling state:
Or pamper purple pride, who, callous grown,
With eye abhorrent, scowls on wretchedness.

Peace to thy bosom, poor unfortunate!
O may the friendly arm of death strike soon!
And soon it must, to set thy sorrows free.
They, too, who fatten on the spoils of war,
Like thee, must fall a prey to kindred worms.
Thus all things have an end. The proudest state,
With the rude cottage, in their turns must fall;
And Prince and Peasant mingle with the dust!