University of Virginia Library

Peace, peace! The dead lie buried in the earth,
Time sweeping o'er them, changes them to dust.
The lovely form, the spirit speaking smile,
The lips of beauty, eye of kindest beam,
All that the vision of this mortal sight,
Can love to dwell upon; must know the grave.

Aye there ye lie, God's blessing on your souls,
O happy death! to die in righteous cause,
O happy death, to feel the sinking frame,
Yet rising spirit, resting upon God.
Relying on salvation. Such be mine,
O Heaven grant it! Spirit make me thine.
Yet here I think, a mother, in whose eye
I strove to gain that little mead of praise,
Which fiery spirit, and a stirring soul
Seem'd to inspire, lies buried in the dust:
O she was strange, aye, strange in mind and form;
A woman, with the spirit of a man,
And yet not masculine. Me think me now,
A woman's spirit seems to move in me;
At least if tenderness express that word.
O mother! weep I? yes I can but weep,
Ah me! to think of thee and all the good
In thousand ways, thy gen'rous spirit did.
Ah grieve ye children, grieve ye sons of poor;
Ye destitute and friendless: she was friend,
To all she could assist. But earth contains
All that was visible of her I loved.—
O yet I think, that eye so keen, so bright,
So clear, so quick, and penetrating too,
Beneath whose glance, my very soul would shrink,
If ought of wickedness had harboured there,
Would shrink to consciousness of worthless deed.
I think I see it, now it speaks of love,—
Ah, now of glory! now of honor, peace,
Of joy, and happiness. And now me thinks,
It seems to glisten with affection's tear.
Pity, compassion, tenderness, respect,
From one expression quickly changes now
To one more full of fire. The poet's thought
Has made it swell as if the very orb
Would spring from socket, now it does subside.
All placid goodness, now 'tis full of mirth.
O friends of pity, you who love the line
Of pure affection; tell me if regret
Now that no longer such a mother's eye
Can look upon her son, be not that sons.
The day is gone. Her day, her day of life
And night is now the portion of that eye,
Which beam'd so lovelily, that though her son,
I looked, admired, and loved to see it shine,
And would have had it if I could behold
Her sons pursuits. But memory must hold,
Or else this brain, in such a strange pursuit
Will strain to misery, as resting here
On deeds, looks, smiles, words, thoughts, and tears,
Now gone for ever; did I say for aye?
O no. I hope, I trust, I will but pray,
And may that prayer be heard, that she and I,
May meet again in Heaven. Say Amen,—
Stranger refuse not, say Amen with me.
Can I forget my mother's fond embrace?
Can I forget the features of her face?
Can I forget the parent's anxious care?
Can I forget her talents great and rare?
Can I forget her look, her eye, her mind?
Can I forget though left so far behind?
O no, I cannot. God, through thee alone!
I trust eternity will make us one.