Miami Woods : a golden wedding and other poems

Thy cheek—it is pale my mother,
And the light of thine eye is dim—
And the gushings of gladness, that used to fill
Thy cup of joy to its brim,
Come like the visits of angels,
So “few and far between,”
That I feel the reed is a feeble one
On which thou hence must lean.

'Tis a bitter thing, my mother,
To look on a parent's decay—
To behold the Spoiler's ravages,
As he tears life's bloom away:
'Tis bitter to look on the furrows
He ploughs in the thoughtful brow—
To weep o'er the gems of intellect
That are rayless, and sheenless now.

But there is a thought, my mother,
That is balm to the stricken heart:

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—Though the gift of life is a frail one,
And from it we soon must part,
There is a haven of gladness,
For the weary heart a home,
Where the light of joy is never dim,
And sorrows never come.

On that blissful home, my mother,
Thine eye is often bent,
Like a tiny child's on a wished-for-thing—
So longing—so intent.
Oh, how pure in the eye of Heaven
Must the heart of the Christian be—
So entirely fixed on that home above,
From earthliness so free!

University of Virginia Library

To My Mother.