To my mother. ULL twenty years have passed away They seem now but a single day Since last I saw thee, mother. I truly did not mean to stay Away from thee, dear mother. But I was then a wayward child, I knew not then what now I know, I thought then in my foolish mind, As thine, thou kindest mother. And so I rushed into the worid, And on the whirlwind did I ride, I roamed and roamed the world around, I never found it, mother. I sought for nothing more nor less Sought paradise in the wilderness, I sought a heart, I sought a soul, And never found them, mother. And wearied by the endless race, Old, cold, and faint, O mother! TO MY MOTHER. But He whose name be ever blest, Who loves us most and knows us best, Took pity on me, mother; And from his own effulgence bright And now life's stormy days are past; Has found its haven, mother. By wild desires no more distrest, But thou hast left this vale of tears, Far from thy child, O mother! The boundless gratitude I owe, The heart-warm love I fain would show, The tender cares I should bestow, I cannot pay them here below, But thou, so gentle and so mild, Thou wilt forgive me, mother. 155 Behold, the days are running fast, Then comes the hour when at last I shall repay thee, mother! Spirit Voices. HEN the evening shades are creeping And the stars above are keeping Tireless watch o'er earth so still, Spirits from the bending willow, Swayed by zephyrs to and fro, Nightly seek my lonely pillow With their whispers soft and low, Strange, sweet music, sometimes bringing From my heart an answering sigh, Joyous, then, I seek a token Of the being whom they sing, Fall upon my list'ning ear, MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. And my saddened heart rejoices As their welcome strains I hear; My Mother's Grave. Y mother's grave, my mother's grave! Mot devam And drowsily the banners wave O'er her that was so chaste and fair! Yea, love is dead and memory faded! And silence sleeps on earth and sea, And mourners weep, and ghosts awake, In her cold beauty darkly shaded! I cannot guess her face or form; But what to me is form or face? I do not ask the weary worm To give me back each buried grace Of glistening eyes, or trailing tresses! I only feel that she is here, And that we meet, and that we part; 157 |