 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
THE MOTHER'S FAREWELL TO HER WEDDED DAUGHTER.
Go, dearest one, my selfish love shall never pale thy cheek—
Not e'en a mother's fears for thee will I in sadness speak;
Yet how can I with coldness check the burning tears that start?
Hast thou not turned from me to dwell within a stranger heart?
Not e'en a mother's fears for thee will I in sadness speak;
Yet how can I with coldness check the burning tears that start?
Hast thou not turned from me to dwell within a stranger heart?
I think on earlier, brighter days, when first my lip was prest
Upon thy baby brow while thou lay helpless on my breast:
In fancy still I see thine eye uplifted to my face,
I hear thy lisping tones, and mark with joy thy childish grace.
Upon thy baby brow while thou lay helpless on my breast:
In fancy still I see thine eye uplifted to my face,
I hear thy lisping tones, and mark with joy thy childish grace.
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E'en then I knew it would be thus; I thought e'en in that hour,
Another would its perfume steal when I had reared the flower;
And yet I will not breathe a sigh—how may I dare repine?
The sorrow that thy mother feels was suffered once by mine.
Another would its perfume steal when I had reared the flower;
And yet I will not breathe a sigh—how may I dare repine?
The sorrow that thy mother feels was suffered once by mine.
A mother's love! O, thou knowest not how much of feeling lies
In those sweet words; the hopes, the fears, the daily strength'ning ties:
It wakes ere yet the infant draws its earliest vital breath,
And fails but when the mother's heart chills in the grasp of death.
In those sweet words; the hopes, the fears, the daily strength'ning ties:
It wakes ere yet the infant draws its earliest vital breath,
And fails but when the mother's heart chills in the grasp of death.
Will he, in whose fond arms thou seek'st thine all of earthly bliss,
E'er feel a love, untiring, deep, and free from self, like this?
O, no! man's deepest tenderness thy gentle heart may prove,
But only in a mother's breast dwells such unselfish love.
E'er feel a love, untiring, deep, and free from self, like this?
O, no! man's deepest tenderness thy gentle heart may prove,
But only in a mother's breast dwells such unselfish love.
My thoughts to thee must ever turn as in the years gone by,
While to thy heart I shall be like a dream of memory;
Go, dearest one, may angel hosts their vigils o'er thee keep—
How can I breath love's sad farewell, and yet forbear to weep?
While to thy heart I shall be like a dream of memory;
Go, dearest one, may angel hosts their vigils o'er thee keep—
How can I breath love's sad farewell, and yet forbear to weep?
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |