 | A gift book of stories and poems for children |  |
66
THE MOTHER'S ANGER;
OR THE DISSIPATED BOY.
Tis the first time—the only time
That e'er she turn'd away,
And left me with the brand of crime
To curse this fatal day!
That e'er she turn'd away,
And left me with the brand of crime
To curse this fatal day!
For sixteen years her evening kiss,
Has dwelt upon my brow,
Or lip, or cheek, in gentle bliss,—
Alas! where is it now?
Has dwelt upon my brow,
Or lip, or cheek, in gentle bliss,—
Alas! where is it now?
Would that I were again the child,
Who lay upon her breast,
And looked into her eyes and smiled,
Caressing and carest!
Who lay upon her breast,
And looked into her eyes and smiled,
Caressing and carest!
67
Would that I now could bend my head
Upon her knee in prayer,
And hear the holy words she said
When once I nestled there!
Upon her knee in prayer,
And hear the holy words she said
When once I nestled there!
Oh, had I dashed the cup away
That lured me to my shame!
I cannot weep—I cannot pray—
My heart—my thoughts are flame!
That lured me to my shame!
I cannot weep—I cannot pray—
My heart—my thoughts are flame!
Mother, dear mother, turn once more
And bless thy sorrowing son!
Look on me as thou didst before
Ere sin's dark work was done.
And bless thy sorrowing son!
Look on me as thou didst before
Ere sin's dark work was done.
Oh heaven! she comes—I feel her breath
Cool, on my feverish eyes!
She speaks—the burning torch of death
At her soft accent flies!
Cool, on my feverish eyes!
She speaks—the burning torch of death
At her soft accent flies!
Oh, mother, on my knees I swear
To spurn the tempting bowl,
Nor risk again where revellers are,
Thy love—my God—my soul!
To spurn the tempting bowl,
Nor risk again where revellers are,
Thy love—my God—my soul!
| A gift book of stories and poems for children | |