 | The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson |  |
STANZAS ON VISITING A MOTHER'S GRAVE.
A strain of egotism is surely allowable, when the most tender emotions of the heart are forced into action, by a visit to the tomb of an affectionate parent. Then, and only then, the dearest scenes of life are recalled to imagination—scenes that occurred long ere sorrow had occasioned us to suspect the wily deeds of man: delighted with the retrospective glance, we proudly exclaim, such things were, but never must return!
Adjoining St. Mary's Cathedral, Carlisle, in the north west corner, behind every one, are interred many of my ancestors and relatives. No sculptured tale of truth or falsehood marks the place; for alas! they had to struggle against poverty, and toil their day of life “unknowing and unknown.”
These simple stanzas were written after an absence of many years from my native place, and can only be acceptable to such readers as cherish the remembrance of a mother's solicitude.
A strain of egotism is surely allowable, when the most tender emotions of the heart are forced into action, by a visit to the tomb of an affectionate parent. Then, and only then, the dearest scenes of life are recalled to imagination—scenes that occurred long ere sorrow had occasioned us to suspect the wily deeds of man: delighted with the retrospective glance, we proudly exclaim, such things were, but never must return!
Adjoining St. Mary's Cathedral, Carlisle, in the north west corner, behind every one, are interred many of my ancestors and relatives. No sculptured tale of truth or falsehood marks the place; for alas! they had to struggle against poverty, and toil their day of life “unknowing and unknown.”
These simple stanzas were written after an absence of many years from my native place, and can only be acceptable to such readers as cherish the remembrance of a mother's solicitude.
View the sod with briars bound;
There the farce of finery's ended,—
All are equal under ground:
Wise men, weak ones, poor, and wealthy,
Tenant unremitting graves;
Haughty, humble, sick, and healthy,
Britain's sons and Afric's slaves!”
The spot where my poor Mother's laid,
When quick the tears gush'd from my eye;—
I hung my head like one afraid;
And thought of all the anxious days,
And restless nights for me she bore;
A puny thing, ill worth her care,
Then did I sigh, and weep the more.
The sod that wrapp'd a parent's clay,
And on that narrow spot of earth,
O, I could weep the hours away!
I tore a nettle from her tomb!
Why should a rank weed flourish there?
O'er one who virtue made her guide,
Pale prey to sickness, want, and care.
Where blythe was spent life's op'ning day;
And oft, at eve, I trace the fields
Where she would fondly with me stray;
And oft I seek the place of graves,
Where one I water with a tear;
And still her spirit seems to say,
Prepare in time to rest thee here!
When she was to the dust consign'd;
Soon eager beat my guileless heart
To seek the world, to know mankind:
The world I saw, mankind I loved,
And heedless sail'd down pleasure's stream:
Now, busy mem'ry loud proclaims,
Life's morning's all a fev'rish dream!
Fain would I rest my wearied head,
For I'm a joyless pilgrim here,
And none would seek my narrow bed.
Reflection wounds me in the past;
To-morrow brings not hope to me;
O, sainted form! O, parent blest!
Would I had bow'd to earth with thee!
When joyous home from school I flew;
And with affection's dearest kiss,
My arms around her neck I threw.
Tho' luxury our board ne'er grac'd,
'Midst poverty content was giv'n,
And all that wealth or wisdom boast,
Are nought without this boon of Heav'n!
On her pure bosom, fondly lov'd;
And all hope's wanton dreams of bliss,
Were, with a smile, by her approv'd:
Her lessons led to virtue's path;
Her num'rous sorrows were made mine;
And ever present is her look,
When now I welcome life's decline.
Spread o'er the earth her fost'ring dews,
Cold were the lips I weeping kiss'd,
And I was told heart-rending news.
Whate'er my fate, whate'er my care,
While in this frame life's pulse shall beat,
All worldly ills I'll patient bear,
And fondly hope with her to meet.
| The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson | |