 | Dryburgh Abbey and other poems |  |
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THE MOTHER.
I
A softening thought of other years,A feeling link'd to hours,
When Life was all too bright for tears,—
And Hope sang, wreath'd with flowers!
A memory of affections fled—
Of voices—heard no more!—
Stirred in my spirit when I read
That name of fondness o'er!
II
Oh Mother!—in that early wordWhat loves and joys combine;
What hopes—too oft, alas!—deferr'd;
What vigils—griefs—are thine!—
Yet, never, till the hour we roam—
By worldly thralls opprest,
Learn we to prize that truest home—
A watchful mother's breast!
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III
The thousand prayers at midnight pour'dBeside our couch of woes;
The wasting weariness endured
To soften our repose!—
Whilst never murmur mark'd thy tongue—
Nor toils relaxed thy care:—
How, Mother, is thy heart so strong
To pity and forbear?
IV
What filial fondness e'er repaidOr could repay the past?—
Alas! for gratitude decayed!
Regrets—that rarely last!—
'Tis only when the dust is thrown
Thy lifeless bosom o'er;
We muse upon thy kindness shown—
And wish we'd loved thee more!
V
'Tis only when thy lips are cold—We mourn with late regret,
'Mid myriad memories of old—
The days for ever set!
And not an act—nor look—nor thought—
Against thy meek control,
But with a sad remembrance fraught
Wakes anguish in the soul!
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VI
On every land—in every clime—True to her sacred cause,
Fill'd by that effluence sublime
From which her strength she draws,
Still is the Mother's heart the same—
The Mother's lot as tried:—
Then, oh! may Nations guard that name
With filial power and pride!
| Dryburgh Abbey and other poems | |