To A Young Lady, Poem by Lucretia Maria Davidson

WHOSE MOTHER WAS INSANE FROM HER BIRTH.
(Written in her seventeenth year.)

And thou hast never, never known
A mother's love, a mother's care!
Hast wept, and sigh'd, and smil'd alone,
Unblest by e'en a mother's prayer.

Oh, if sad sorrow's blighting hand
Hath e'er an arrow, it is this;
To feel that phrenzy's burning brand
Hath wip'd away a mother's kiss;

To mark the gulf, the starless wave,
Which rolls between thee and her love,
To feel that better were a grave,
A grave beneath — a home above;

Than thus that she should linger on,
In dreamless, sunless solitude;
Like some bright ruin'd shrine, where one
All loveliness and truth hath stood.

And he, her love, her life, her light,
How burst the storm o'er him!
Oh, darker than Egyptian night,
'T was one wild troubled dream!

To gaze upon that eye, whose beam
Was love, and life, and light,
To mark its wild and wandering gleam
Which dazzles but to blight;

To turn in anguish and despair
—From those wild notes of sadness,
And feel that there was darkness there,
The midnight mist of madness;

To start beneath the thrilling swell
Of notes still sweet, tho' wasted,
To mark the idol lov'd too well,
In all its beauty blasted;

Oh! it were better far to kneel,
In darkly brooding anguish,
Upon the graves of those we love,
Than thus to see them languish.