 | Poems |  |
Ah! not alone to him—turn thee and see
Beneath the shadow of yon balsam tree
A failing mother of a fainting son
Resting to die deserted and alone.
Turn thee and mark the mother's gentle care
Stripping the fillet from her silken hair,
So it may fall to shade his feeble frame,
A glossy curtain from the noon-day flame;
See—at her feet the shrivelled flagon cast,
The last drop drained, the sweetest and the last.
Drained at her darling's lip to still his cries,
A mother's free and final sacrifice.
Look—she hath taken it, and yet again
Presses the flagon—presses—but in vain.
The scrip is emptied and the flagon dry,
And nothing left them but the leave to die.
Beneath the shadow of yon balsam tree
A failing mother of a fainting son
Resting to die deserted and alone.
Turn thee and mark the mother's gentle care
Stripping the fillet from her silken hair,
So it may fall to shade his feeble frame,
A glossy curtain from the noon-day flame;
See—at her feet the shrivelled flagon cast,
The last drop drained, the sweetest and the last.
Drained at her darling's lip to still his cries,
A mother's free and final sacrifice.
Look—she hath taken it, and yet again
Presses the flagon—presses—but in vain.
The scrip is emptied and the flagon dry,
And nothing left them but the leave to die.
| Poems | |