Hark! where the strain of welcome sounds,
To hail the ever blessed day;
When in a manger’s lowly bounds,
The Lord of Life and glory lay!

The howling wind is armed with frost,
Which throws around its keenest darts;
Still, winter’s cold in mirth is lost,
And pleasure fills unnumbered hearts.

But there were those to whom that morn
Came with a joyless, withering breath;
And there was one to whom was borne
Thy summons dread, relentless death!

And one there was, on whom, that day,
Affliction’s heaviest burden prest;
For in death’s cold embrace he lay,
Whom she had longest loved and best.

Perchance when she that morning rose,
She winter saw with shuddering start;
But, little thought, ere noon should close,
To know the winter of the heart.

Sad, sudden stroke! no parting word
Could memory treasure! no farewell!
In one short moment, mute, o’erpow’red,
From her fond grasp her husband fell!

The gradual twilight of decay,
Prepared her not for such a sight,
But, like the equatorial day,
’Twas cloudless noon, and then–’twas night.

Yet still athwart that mourner’s gloom,
Some blessed beams of mercy broke;
And while she bent beneath her doom,
Her quivering lip of comfort spoke.

For gently down he sank in death,
While she, whom most he loved, was nigh;
And, ere he drew his parting breath,
On her had turned his closing eye.

’Twas his last smile of grateful love!
O! thought, thanksgiving’s voice to raise!
And as with grief religion strove,
The pious sufferer murmured praise!

And while the crowded streets along,
Rejoicing reigned that day, that night,
And numbers joined in festive song,
Or hailed the time with public rite;

Within that house of grief and gloom,
Where fondly wept, its master lay,
A Christian summoned to his doom,
And friends lamenting o’er his clay;

Then was the Saviour’s influence felt,
The babe of Bethl’hem there adored–
For in the mourner’s heart he dwelt,
Her refuge, rock, Redeemer, Lord!

Amelia Alderson Opie
Lays for the Dead, 1834