 | Nacoochee ; or, the beautiful star, with other Poems |  |
89
TO MY MOTHER.
Thou hast been to me, in mine hours of grief,The healing cordial of sublime relief.
Thou hast been to me, in mine hours of thirst,
The cool outpourings of affections nursed.
And 'tis not that I see thee with an eye
More dark and sightless than I had of yore;
And 'tis not that my feelings, by-and-by,
Shall feel less tender than they were before.
And 'tis not that my bosom hath no care,
That I do not for thee more often mourn;
But time hath taught me with myself to bear,
And brave those things which youth could not have borne.
And 'tis not that I yearn for thee the less,
Or live unmoved by that strange tenderness;
And 'tis not that my heart has callous grown,
That I do not complain for one so dear!
For I have felt what man hath never known,
And wept when no one saw me shed a tear!
And not that I have lost one tender feeling,
But that such love was past my youth's concealing;
And that I now have o'er me more control
Than when a child—when I had too much soul.
As well may Time attempt to drain the sea,
As waste one atom of my love for thee.
| Nacoochee ; or, the beautiful star, with other Poems | |