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My Mother! weary years have passed, since last
I met thy gentle smile ; and sadly then
It fell upon my young and joyous heart.
There was a mortal paleness on thy cheek,
And well I knew, they bore thee far away
With a vain hope to mend the broken springs
The springs of life. And bitter tears I shed
In childhood's short-lived agony of grief,
When soothing voices said that thou wert gone,
And that I must not weep for thou wert blest.
Full many a flower has bloomed upon thy grave,
And many a winter's snow has melted there;
Childhood has passed, and youth is passing now,
And scatters paler roses on my path;
Dim and more dim my fancy paints thy form,
Thy mild blue eye, thy cheek so thin and fair,

Touched, when I saw thee last, with hectic flush,
Telling, in solemn beauty, of the grave.
Mine ear hath lost the accents of thy voice,
And faintly o'er my memory comes at times
A glimpse of joys that had their source in thee,
Like one brief strain of some forgotton song.
And then at times a blessed dream comes down,
Missioned, perhaps, by thee from brighter realms;
And wearing all the semblance of thy form,
Gives to my heart the joy of days gone by.
With gushing tears I wake; 0, art thou not
Unseen and bodiless around my path,
Watching with brooding love about thy child ?
Is it not so, my mother? I will not
Think it a fancy, wild, and vain, and false,
That spirits good and pure as thine, descend
Like guardian angels round the few they loved,
Oft intercepting coming woes, and still
Joying on every beam that gilds our paths;
And waving snowy pinions o'er our heads
When midnight slumbers close our aching eyes.


There is an unseen Power around,

Existing in the silent air ;
Where treadeth Man, where space is found,

Unheard, unknown, that Power is there.

And not when bright and busy Day

Is round us with its crowds and cares, And not when Night with solemn sway

Bids awe-hushed souls breathe forth in prayers

Not when on sickness' weary couch

He writhes with pain's deep, long drawn groan, Not when his steps in freedom touch

The fresh green turf-is man alone.

In proud Belshazzar's gilded hall,

'Mid music, lights, and revelry, That Present Spirit looked on all,

From crouching slave, to royalty.

When sinks the pious Christian's soul,

And scenes of horror daunt his eye, He hears it whispered through the air,

A Power of Mercy still is nigh.”

The Power that watches, guides, defends,

Till man becomes a lifeless sod, Till earth is nought,-nought, earthly friends,

That omnipresent Power-is God.


Hear, father, hear thy faint afflicted flock
Cry to thee, from the desert and the rock ;
While those, who seek to slay thy children, hold
Blasphemous worship under roofs of gold;
And the broad goodly lands, with pleasant airs
That nurse the fruit and wave the grain, are theirs.

Yet better were this mountain wilderness,
And this wild life of danger and distress-
Watchings by night and perilous flight by day,
And meetings in the depths of earth to pray,
Better, far better, than to kneel with them,

pay the impious rite thy laws condemn.

Thou, Lord, dost hold the thunder; the firm land
Tosses in billows when it feels thy hand;
Thou dashest nation against nation, then
Stillest the angry world to peace again.
Oh touch their stony hearts who hunt thy sons
The murderers of our wives and little ones.

Yet, mighty God, yet shall thy frown look forth
Unveiled, and terribly shall shake the earth.
Then the foul power of priestly sin and all
Its long upheld idolatries shall fall.
Thou shalt raise up the trampled and opprest,
And thy delivered saints shall dwell in rest.


Sweet little flower, so gaily drest,
With nature's charms so richly blest,

Thou giv'st me pleasure.
Although thy name I know it not,
I'll meditate upon thy lot,

Now I'm at leisure.

On beauty's bosom thou may’st lie,
There lose thy perfume, and there die;

A happy death!
Or, battered by the tempest storm,
Bow down thy weak and slender form

Before its breath.

Or, torn away by whirlwind's blast,
Borne high in air, at length be cast

Upon the ground.
Or, parched by drought, may’st droop away,
Return again to humble clay,

Nor more be found.

Or, taken from thy native place
By pious children's hands, may’st grace

A parent's grave;
Or, severed from thy taper stem
To deck the vernal diadem,

O'er beauty wave.


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