The American common-place book of poetry with occasional notes |
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Power of Maternal Piety.—Mrs. Sigourney.
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 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
Power of Maternal Piety.—Mrs. Sigourney.
“When I was a little child, (said a good old man,) my mother used to bid me kneel down beside her, and place her hand upon my head, while she prayed. Ere I was old enough to know her worth, she died, and I was left too much to my own guidance. Like others, I was inclined to evil passions, but often felt myself checked, and, as it were, drawn back by a soft hand upon my head. When a young man, I travelled in foreign lands, and was exposed to many temptations; but when I would have yielded, that same hand was upon my head, and I was saved. I seemed to feel its pressure as in the days of my happy infancy, and sometimes there came with it a voice in my heart, a voice that must be obeyed,—‘O, do not this wickedness, my son, nor sin against thy God.’”
Ye children, young and gay?
Your locks, beneath the blast of cares,
Will bleach as white as they.
Who o'er my pillow hung,
Kissed from my cheek the briny dew,
And taught my faltering tongue.
Would bow my infant knee,
And place her hand upon my head,
And, kneeling, pray for me.
I sought my mother's bed,
Till harsh hands tore me thence away,
And told me she was dead.
To lay it by her side,
And thought strange sleep enchained her soul,
For no fond voice replied.
And said a lonely prayer;
Yet still my temples seemed to glow
As if that hand were there.
Gay sports and pastimes dear;
I rose a wild and wayward boy,
Who scorned the curb of fear.
Yet, ere at night I slept,
That soft hand made my bosom bleed
And down I fell, and wept.
But oft, at day's decline,
A marble touch my brow congealed—
Blessed mother, was it thine?—
My pulse was bounding high,
Vice spread her meshes at my side,
And pleasure lured my eye;—
Maintained its mystic sway,
As when, amid my curls of gold,
With gentle force it lay.
As from the lowly sod,
“My son—my only one—beware!
Nor sin against thy God.”
My kindly warmth away,
And dimmed the tablet of the soul;—
Yet when, with lordly sway,
That guides the warrior throng,
Or beauty's thrilling fingers strayed
These manly locks among,—
And now, though time hath set
His frosty seal upon my lot,
These temples feel it yet.
A mother's holy prayer,
A mother's hand, and gentle tear,
That pointed to a Savior dear,
Have led the wanderer there.
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