University of Virginia Library

This Hemlock tree—this Hemlock tree
With foliage thick and dark;
It hath a lesson, boy, for thee,
Which I would have thee mark.
See here within its sheltering breast
Secure from sun or storm,
The wild birds' callow fledgelings rest,
Within their cradle warm.
The helpless things have naught to fear,
So quiet is their home;
No prowling foe can reach them here,
No hawk or vulture come.
But when their wings are plum'd, and strong,
They'll fly the native bower;
And pour their souls in tender song,
To every blushing flower.

The Hemlock will be lonely then,
And many a plaintive sigh,
Will ask the warblers back again,
Of winds that wander by.
At morn no dear familiar hymn
Shall hail the holy light,
Which wakes amongst her leaflets dim,
The diamonds of the night.
No vesper song at close of day
Shall thrill her darken'd breast,
And with the daylight melt away,
In sacred peace, and rest.
But when the wind-wing'd thunder shower
Rides out upon the gale,
Appalling beast, and bird, and flower
With whirlwind, fire, and hail,
With drooping head, and ruffled plume,
And low and broken strain,
The wounded bird, perchance, will come
To this retreat again.
See'st thou no emblem here, my boy?
Is not this Hemlock tree
A type of her whose hope, and joy,
Is centred all in thee?
Her bosom is thy shelter now,
A dear and quiet place,
Where thou may'st rest thy sunny brow
Secure in her embrace.
But when young manhood's fires shall burn,
In heart, in eye, in brain;
And the strong limb, and spirit, spurn
E'en pure affection's chain;
I know that thou wilt wander forth
Where hope shall point the way;
To seek a paradise on earth
Where heavenly creatures stay.
Where streams of thrilling rapture flow
'Neath love's immortal bowers;
Where laurel crowns profusely grow,
With wreaths of golden flowers.

Thy home will be deserted then,
And loneliness and fears,
Will gather clouds of care and pain
Around my waning years.
And many a vainly yearning care
Will follow on thy track;
And many a fond and fervent prayer
Will ask the wanderer back.
While thou art ranging free, and wide,
Pursuing wealth, or fame,
And scarce remembering in thy pride
Thy mourning mother's name.
The boy she nurs'd, the boy she loves,
To whom her heart is grown,
Forgets, while joyously he roves,
That she will weep alone.

But when affliction wrings thy heart,
When sickness bends thy frame;
When falsehood strikes thee with her dart,
Or vilifies thy name;
When disappointment's bitter draught
O'erflows the cup of joy;
And cold despair's transfixing shaft
Has pierc'd thy heart, my boy;
Then, having prov'd the promise vain
That lur'd thy feet to rove,
Thou'lt think amid thy grief and pain,
Of home—and mother's love.

Ay, boy! when all the summer flowers
Shall wither, and decay;
When from the grove, and fragrant bowers
The verdure falls away,
The Hemlock, green and shadowy still,
A safe retreat will prove;
And mark me, boy, through every ill
Such is a Mother's Love.