Sweet Hours

THESE ever wakeful eyes are closed. They saw Such grief, that they could see no more. The heart— That quick'ning pulse of nations—could not bear Another throb of pain, and could not hear Another cry of tortur'd motherhood. Those uncomplaining lips, they sob no more The soundless sobs of dark and burning tears, That none have seen; they smile no more, to breathe A mother's comfort into aching hearts. The patriarchal Queen, the monument Of touching widowhood, of endless love, And childlike purity—she sleeps. This night Is watchful not. The restless hand, that slave To duty, to a mastermind, to wisdom That fathom'd history and saw beyond The times, lies still in marble whiteness. Love So great, so faithful, unforgetting and Unselfish—must it sleep? Or will that veil, That widow's veil unfold, and spread into The dovelike wings, that long were wont to hover In anxious care about her world-wide nest, And now will soar and sing, as harpchords sing, Whilst in their upward flight they breast the wind Of Destiny. No rest for her, no tomb, Nor ashes! Light eternal! Hymns of joy! No silence now for her, who, ever silent, Above misfortunes' storms and thund'ring billows, Would stand with clear and fearless brow, so calm, That men drew strength from out those dauntless eyes, And quiet from that hotly beating heart, Kept still by stern command and unbent will Beneath those tight shut lips. Not ashes, where A beacon e'er will burn, a fire, like The Altar's Soma, for the strong, the weak, The true, the brave, and for the quailing. No, Not ashes, but a light, that o'er the times Will shed a gentle ray, and show the haven, When all the world, stormshaken, rudderless, will pray: If but her century would shine again! Oh, Lord! Why hast thou ta'en thy peaceful Queen?