Public Domain Poetry And Stories - A Worldly Death-Bed. by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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A Worldly Death-Bed.

    By Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon



    Hush! speak in accents soft and low,
        And treat with careful stealth
    Thro' that rich curtained room which tells
        Of luxury and wealth;
    Men of high science and of skill
        Stand there with saddened brow,
    Exchanging some low whispered words -
        What can their art do now?

    Follow their gaze to yonder couch
        Where moans in fitful pain
    The mistress of this splendid home,
        With aching heart and brain.
    The fever burning in her veins
        Tinges with carmine bright
    That sunken cheek - alas! she needs
        No borrowed bloom to-night.

    The masses of her raven hair
        Fall down on either side
    In tangled richness - it has been
        Through life her care and pride;
    And those small perfect hands on which
        Her gaze complacent fell,
    Now, clenched within her pillow's lace,
        Of anguish only tell.

    Sad was her restless, fev'rish sleep,
        More sad her waking still,
    As with wild start she looks around
        Her chamber darkened - still;
    Its silence and the mournful looks
        Of those who stand apart,
    Some awful fear seem to suggest
        To that poor worldly heart.

    "Doctor, I'm better, am I not?"
        She gasps with failing breath -
    Alas! the answer sternly tells
        That she is "ill to death."
    "What! dying!" and her eyes gleam forth
        A flashing, fearful ray,
    "I, young, rich, lovely, from this earth
        To pass so soon away?

    "No, no, it must not, cannot be,
        Surely your skill can save -
    Can stand between me and the gloom,
        The horrors, of the grave!"
    Breathless she listens, but no word
        Breaks that dull pause of grief, -
    Her pitying listeners turn away,
        They cannot give relief

    Tossing aloft, in fierce despair,
        Her arms, with frenzied cry,
    She gasps forth, "Save me - help, O help!
        I must not, will not die."
    But One can grant that wild appeal,
        Can stay her failing breath -
    Of Him she never thought in life
        Nor thinks she now in death.

    Without one prayer, one contrite tear,
        For past faults to atone -
    For wasted talents, misspent life,
        She's gone before God's throne!
    Prying that wilful, wayward heart
        That leaned on gods of clay,
    For calmer, holier death than hers
        With solemn heart we pray.



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