The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/The Chinese Son

The Chinese Son
(The following lines were suggested by reading a narrative of a Chinese youth, whose mother felt great alarm during the prevalence of a thunderstorm, and whose filial affection always prompted him to be present with his mother on such occasions, and even after her  death to visit and remain at her grave, during their continuance.)

I come to thee, my mother! the black sky Is swollen with its thunder, and the air Seems palpable with darkness, save when high, The lurid lightning streams a ruddy glare Across the heavens, rousing from their lair The deep-voiced thunders! how the mounting storm Strides o'er the firmament! yet I can dare Its fiercest terrors, mother, that my arm May wind its shield of love around thy sleeping form.

What uproar! raging winds, and smiting hail, The lightning's blaze, and deaf'ning thunder's crash, Let loose at once for havoc! I should quail Before the terrors of the forked flash, Did not the thought of thee triumphant dash All selfish fears aside, and bid me fly To kneel beside thy grave; the rain-drops plash Heavily round thee from the rifted sky; Yet I am here, fear not—beside thy couch I lie.

Thou canst not hear me—the storm brings not now, One terror to thy bosom—yet 't is sweet To call to mind the smile, wherewith thy brow Was wont in by-gone days my step to greet, When o'er the earth the summer tempest beat, And the loosed thunder shook the heavens—but when Was there a look of mine that did not meet A smile of love from thee? the world of men A friend, like thou hast been, will never yield again.

Oh! mother, mother, how could love like thine Pass from the earth away! on other eyes, The glances of maternal love will shine, And still on other hearts the blessing lies, That made mine blissful; yet far less they prize That boon of happiness—and in their glee, Around their spirits gather many ties Of joy and tenderness—but all to me That made the earth seem bright, is sepulchred with thee.

They sometimes strive to lead me to the halls, Where wine and mirth the fleeting moments wing, But on my clouded spirit sadness falls, More darkly then, than when the cave-glooms fling Their shadows round me, and the night-winds sing Through the torn rocks their melancholy dirge, Or when as now the echoing thunder rings O'er the wide heavens, and the mad gales urge Unto an answering cry, the overmastering surge.

The storms of nature pass, and soon no trace Is left to mark their ravage—but long years Pass lingeringly onward, nor efface The deep-cut channel of our burning tears, Or aching scars, that wasting sorrow sears Upon the breast: lo! even now, a gleam Of moonlight through the broken clouds appears, To bless the earth again. I fain would dream, It was a smile of thine, to bless me with its beam.