It was a fearful thought That this fair earth had not one pleasure left. I was at once of sight and hope bereft. My soul was not yet taught To bow submissive to the sudden stroke; Its crushing weight my heart had well nigh broke. Words are not that can tell The horrid thoughts that burned upon my brain— That came and went with madness still the same— A black and icy spell That froze my life blood, stopped my fluttering breath, Was laid upon me—even “_life in death_.” Long weary months crept by, And I refused all comfort, turned aside Wishing that in my weakness I had died. I uttered no reply, But without ceasing wept, and moaned, and prayed The hand of death no longer might be stayed. I shunned the gaze of all. I knew that pity dwelt in every look. Pity e’en then my proud breast could not brook, Though darkness as a pall Circled me round, each mournful eye _I felt_ That for a moment on my features dwelt. You, dearest mother, know I shrank in sullenness from your caress. Even _your_ kisses added to distress, For burning tears would flow As you bent o’er me, whispering “be calm, He who hath wounded holds for thee a balm.” He did not seem a friend. I deemed in wrath the sudden blow was sent From a strong arm that never might relent. That pain alone would end With life, for, mother, then it seemed to me That long, and dreamless, would death’s slumber be. That blessed illness came. My weakened pulse now bounded wild and strong, While soon a raging fever burned along My worn, exhausted frame. And for the time all knowledge passed away. It mattered not that hidden was the day. — The odor of sweet flowers Came stealing through the casement when I woke; When the wild fever spell at last was broke. And yet for many hours I laid in dreamy stillness, till your tone Called back the life that seemed forever flown. You, mother, knelt in prayer. While one dear hand was resting on my head, With sobbing voice, how fervently you plead For a strong heart, to bear The parting which you feared—“Or, if she live, Comfort, oh, Father! to the stricken give. “Take from her wandering mind The heavy load which it so long hath borne, Which even unto death her frame hath worn. Let her in mercy find _That though the Earth she may no longer see,_ _Her spirit still can look to Heaven and Thee_.” A low sob from me stole. A moment more—your arms about me wound— My head upon your breast a pillow found. And through my weary soul A holy calm came stealing from on high. Your prayer was answered—I was not to die.