The Widow And Her Children Poem by Thomas Cogswell Upham

I.
Down by yon gentle stream, whose curling flow
Brightens beneath the hillock's calm ascent,
A cottage stands. Before its day of woe,
Flowers bloomed around, and where the forest sent
Its waving branches towards the firmament,
Not distant far, were heard loud-spoken joys,
Which came, what time the setting sun was spent,
Beneath the gnarled oak from bright-eyed boys;
But now the flower is dim, and silent grief annoys.

II.
Yea, I remember well! Three years are gone,
And it was last of autumn; woods were sear,
And oft November's gusty blasts came on,
Whirling the leaves in air with sport severe;
'Twas then with sauntering footsteps I drew near,
Entering the white-washed walls. And all below
That cottage roof did to mine eyes appear,
Far from pollution's blight and touch of woe;
There, hearts with hope are glad, and cheeks with pleasure glow.

III.
The meek-eyed sheep grazed near the running wave;
The noisy geese proud o'er its bosom rowed;
As mindful of the care the farmer gave,
Their annual gifts of wool his flock bestowed;
Slowly the cow returned, and loudly lowed
To call the maiden from the cottage door,
And yield into her pail the milky load;
The cow, the friend and favorite of the poor,
That gives them great content, if they have nothing more.

IV.
The cottager, who wrought with arm not slack,
Cheerful, now laid aside his axe and spade,
And from his field's rude boundary came back.
The sun sunk low, and with the evening shade,
The day was darkly closed. Sweet pause was made
To toils with each new morn returning still.
Nor longer then in prank and sport delayed
Two laughing boys. They, whistling o'er the hill,
Direct their footsteps home, with joy their cot to fill.

V.
Their days were days of labor; yet not this
Could render them unhappy. They could see
Duty in toil, which changed that toil to bliss.
Contented thus they lived. They knew, that He
A friend to the believing poor would be,
Who feeds the raven, gives the flower its bloom.
I looked around; and in their poverty,
The marks of household labor graced the room;
Here hung the skeins of yarn; there stood the wheel and loom.

VI.
Kind family! That ever warmly pressed
Stranger or friend, his hour that with them spent,
Freely to share whatever they possessed;
Fruits of the wild and garden they present,
With heart sincere, no feigned sentiment.
And happy in their goodness, smiles declare,
Which pleasure to their dimpled features lent,
That they were well rewarded for their care,
When friend or stranger took such as the poor could spare.

VII.
They were not happy always! for the storm,
Which threatens all, hath beat upon the brow,
And brought unto the dust the manly form.
The father, husband, friend! Where is he now?
There came a sickness on him, which did bow
The vigor of his strength, and dim his eye.
Alas! our life is like a flower; and how,
How speedily shall all the living die.
And in the common dust in equal lowness lie!

VIII.
And she most patiently, whose faithful heart
Was bound to his in wedlock's sacred band,
In toil and watching showed the duteous part.
Day followed day: she still was seen to stand
Beside his pillow, with assisting hand.
But all her tender arts could not avail
To hold him from the grave's oblivious land.
The living went with weeping and with wail,
And buried low his dust down in the green-wood vale.

IX.
Nor this the sum of sadness in her lot,
More desert still shall be her lone abode;
Orphans, and poor, her children leave her cot,
Cast out, unguided, on life's stormy road.
The evening hearth, where oft they gathered, glowed
Bright with the blaze the burning logs dispense.
Here were they wont to meet, and friendship flowed
Warm from each heart, and joy filled every sense;
But now their father's dead, and they must hasten hence.

X.
The flower, that graced their fields, no more shall bloom,
The vine shall droop, their art was wont to raise,
And from their cottage, dark with grief and gloom,
Be banished the delights of former days.
But say, can absence or can toil erase
The memory of each dear scene and friend?
Forgetfulness may other thoughts displace,
But early days with after life shall blend,
Grow with our memory's growth, and with our being end.

XI.
Gone are the hours, when first in youth's sweet time,
With vagrant feel they wandered o'er the hill;
And when with rival zeal they loved to climb
The rocks, that rose beside the noisy mill,
Marking the fall of waters, and the fill
Of pleasure came into their joyful heart.
Such is our lot, of Providence the will;
Oh, Thou who sendest grief, support impart;
Protect the orphans all; the orphan's Friend thou art.

XII.
The mourning daughters to the Factory went,
That rears on high its massy stories tall,
With noise of many looms in concert blent,
And wheels that loudly dash within its wall,
Close on the banks of darkling Salmon-Fall.
Thither they walked on foot, and hand in hand;
They grieved to leave their mother, but their all
Consisted in some scanty roods of land,
And he was gone who ploughed; they were an orphan band.

XIII.
One boy at home the widowed mother kept,
To glean their little field, to bring the wood,
Piled in their cot at eve before they slept,
And cheer with filial love her solitude.
The elder lad, more stout, in labor good,
O'er whom had passed the sixteenth summer's beam,
Sought, with a farmer near, a livelihood,
With axe, and plough, and driving of his team.
Thus sadly early joys departed like a dream.

XIV.
Ye, who have watched o'er guileless infancy,
And kindly rocked the cradle of its rest;
Ye, who have borne it on the patient knee,
Nor less in riper years have loved, carest,
Than when upon your knee, or on your breast,
Can fitly tell, and you alone can tell,
How sad the hour of parting! How unblest
The moment of the long, the long farewell!
But ere they left their home, these parting accents fell.

XV.
My loved ones! said the mother, (and the tear
Of sorrow twinkled in her widowed eye,)
Ye are my charge. It rests, my children dear,
On me alone. Ye saw your father die,
And low and still in dust his ashes lie;
We followed him together to his tomb.
For you, my orphans, oft I heave the sigh;
For you with anxious toil I urge the loom,
For you I pray at morn, and at deep midnight's gloom.

XVI.
I see you now, as in the seasons past,
Heaven only knows if we shall meet again;
Great were our joys, but they have faded fast;
And yet, my children, we should not complain,
Nor aught, that comes in Providence, arraign.
Jehovah will our wants and griefs relieve,
If we our souls in patience shall sustain.
Lifting your thoughts to him, ye shall receive
Great blessings from his hand; and such he will not leave.

XVII.
Thus spake the mother. Many tears did fall.
Her orphan children to their masters went.
The anxious parent bade them, one and all,
Be faithful in their work and be content.
Oft little gifts her wanderers to her sent,
Earned by their daily toils; for their true heart
Was never from their childhood's dwelling rent.
The elder brother learns the farmer's art;
In Salmon-Fall the maids industrious act their part.

XVIII.
Ye farmers! see that ye, in virtue's school,
Bring up all those, who fall unto your care;
And ye, who o'er yon massy Factories rule!
Let the poor orphan in your kindness share;
Then shall they serve you well, and good prepare
Both for themselves and others; and your name
Receive the good man's smile, the poor man's prayer.
How many thanks the virtuous soul may claim!
Such build upon a rock, and are not put to shame.