Mater Dolorosa

Id a dream to-night
As I fell asleep,
O! the touching sight
Makes me still to weep:
Of my little lad,
Gone to leave me sad,
Ay, the child I had,
But was not to keep.

As in heaven high,
I my child did seek,
There in train came by
Children fair and meek,
Each in lily white,
With a lamp alight;
Each was clear to sight,
But they did not speak.

Then, a little sad,
Came my child in turn,
But the lamp he had,
O it did not burn!
He, to clear my doubt,
Said, half turnd about,
Your tears put it out;
Mother, never mourn.

William Barnes

William Barnes was an English writer, poet, minister, and philologist best known for his dialect poems. Born on February 22, 1801, in Dorset, Barnes had a significant impact on the preservation and celebration of the Dorset dialect, incorporating it extensively in his works. Beyond his poetry, Barnes was a champion of linguistic purism and advocated for the use of Anglo-Saxon vocabulary over Latin-derived terms. He passed away on October 7, 1886. His literary contributions are often associated with the rural and pastoral life.

William Barnes

The Young That Died In Beauty

William Barnes, Simple Poetry

Easter Zunday

William Barnes, Simple Poetry

The Geate A-vallen To

William Barnes, Simple Poetry

The Turnstile

William Barnes, Simple Poetry

English

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The sparrows wake beneath the convent eaves;
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In The Night.

The Child.

I hear you weeping, mother, dear,--
    I hear you wake and weep;
What brings the tears into your eyes
    When you should be asleep?
I hear my name upon your lips;
    What is it that you say
Of one who broke a trusting heart,
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The Mother.

I weep for you, my pretty lass,
    Frail flower of love unblessed,
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Maternal Grief

Departed Child! I could forget thee once
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Thy dissolution brings, that in my soul
Is present and perpetually abides
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By the returning substance, seen or touched,
Seen by mine eyes, or clasped in my embrace.
Absence and death how differ they! and how
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Assist me, God, their boundaries to know,
O teach me calm submission to thy Will!
The Child she mourned had overstepped the pale
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The Affliction Of Margaret

I

Where art thou, my beloved Son,
Where art thou, worse to me than dead?
Oh find me, prosperous or undone!
Or, if the grave be now thy bed,
Why am I ignorant of the same
That I may rest; and neither blame
Nor sorrow may attend thy name?

II

Seven years, alas! to have received
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Was ever darkness like to this?

III

He was among the prime in worth,
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Lamentation

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From morn to eve, from evening unto morning,
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I mourn the little children of my dwelling,
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Sorrows that mothers feel my heart is swelling,
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One little blossom on my bosom faded,
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My boys that came with flying feet to meet me,
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I had not seen my son's dear face
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I doubted, for my mists of tears.

His blessing be with me for ever!
My hope and doubt were hard to sever.
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    I filled his wallet and kissed his beads,
And lost his echoing feet for ever.

If to my son my alms were given
I know not, and I wait for Heaven.
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