Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.

By William Bourne OliverPeabody

116 Lament of Anastasius

IT was but yesterday, my love, thy little heart beat high,

And I had scorned the warning voice that told me thou must die;

I saw thee move with active bound, with spirits light and free,

And infant grace and beauty gave their glorious charm to thee.

Upon the dewy field I saw thine early footsteps fly,

Unfettered as the matin bird that cleaves the radiant sky;

And often as the sunrise gale blew back thy shining hair,

Thy cheek displayed the red-rose tinge that health had painted there.

Then, withered as my heart had been, I could not but rejoice

To hear upon the morning wind the music of thy voice,

Now echoing in the careless laugh, now melting down to tears:

’T was like the sounds I used to hear in old and happier years.

Thanks for that memory to thee, my lovely little boy!

’T is all remains of former bliss that care cannot destroy;

I listened, as the mariner suspends the outbound oar

To taste the farewell gale that blows from off his native shore.

I loved thee, and my heart was blessed; but ere the day was spent,

I saw thy light and graceful form in drooping illness bent,

And shuddered as I cast a look upon the fainting head,

For all the glow of health was gone, and life was almost fled.

One glance upon thy marble brow made known that hope was vain;

I knew the swiftly wasting lamp would never light again;

Thy cheek was pale, thy snow-white lips were gently thrown apart,

And life in every passing breath seemed gushing from the heart.

And, when I could not keep the tear from gathering in my eye,

Thy little hand pressed gently mine in token of reply;

To ask one more exchange of love thy look was upward cast,

And in that long and burning kiss thy happy spirit passed.

I trusted I should not have lived to bid farewell to thee,

And nature in my heart declares it ought not so to be;

I hoped that thou within the grave my weary head should lay,

And live beloved, when I was gone, for many a happy day.

With trembling hand I vainly tried thy dying eyes to close,

And how I envied in that hour thy calm and deep repose!

For I was left alone on earth, with pain and grief opprest;

And thou wert with the sainted, where the weary are at rest.

Yes! I am left alone on earth; but I will not repine

Because a spirit loved so well is earlier blessed than mine:

My fate may darken as it will, I shall not much deplore,

Since thou art where the ills of life can never reach thee more.