Anster Fair, and Other Poems By William Tennant. With A Prefatory Memoir of the Author and his Writings |
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ON MY MOTHER'S DECEASE,
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 | Anster Fair, and Other Poems |  |
ON MY MOTHER'S DECEASE,
NOVEMBER 1831.
My mother dead! what weight of grief
Lies in these little words to me!
Again, again, I am a child,
And fond affection's tears flow free!
Back, back, into my school-boy days,
Rushes my eager memory,
And stirreth up the various scenes
A mother's love endear'd to to me.
Lies in these little words to me!
Again, again, I am a child,
And fond affection's tears flow free!
Back, back, into my school-boy days,
Rushes my eager memory,
And stirreth up the various scenes
A mother's love endear'd to to me.
Again I see her anxious look,
When childhood's sorrows on me lay;
I hear her voice, which, full of hope,
Sooth'd all these childish ails away;
Each word she spoke, each kindly deed
That from her fond hand flutt'ring came,
All rise afresh to sanctify,
Still more a mother's sacred name.
When childhood's sorrows on me lay;
I hear her voice, which, full of hope,
Sooth'd all these childish ails away;
Each word she spoke, each kindly deed
That from her fond hand flutt'ring came,
All rise afresh to sanctify,
Still more a mother's sacred name.
When from on high affliction came,
And fill'd my father's house with tears,
For her alone I felt—for her
My unconfessing soul had fears;
When joy came like an angel down,
To wipe the sorrows God had giv'n,
'Twas for her sake alone I bless'd
That gladness which came down from Heav'n.
And fill'd my father's house with tears,
For her alone I felt—for her
My unconfessing soul had fears;
When joy came like an angel down,
To wipe the sorrows God had giv'n,
'Twas for her sake alone I bless'd
That gladness which came down from Heav'n.
Alas! from day to day I saw
Her feeble frame grow feeble more,
Whilst winter, that to youth gives joy,
His deadly gripe lay on her sore.
I mark'd her tott'ring step—I tried
Kindly to chide her into glee;
Yet scarce at bed-time could her lips
Utter the old “Good-night” to me.
Her feeble frame grow feeble more,
Whilst winter, that to youth gives joy,
His deadly gripe lay on her sore.
I mark'd her tott'ring step—I tried
Kindly to chide her into glee;
Yet scarce at bed-time could her lips
Utter the old “Good-night” to me.
At last the yet unwither'd bloom
That dim upon her face did lie,
Sunk, sunk at once to mortal pale;
I saw it—saw my mother die!
And, though her eye beheld me not,
Her features look'd tranquillity,
And from behind the veil of death
Sent her last blessing unto me!
That dim upon her face did lie,
Sunk, sunk at once to mortal pale;
I saw it—saw my mother die!
And, though her eye beheld me not,
Her features look'd tranquillity,
And from behind the veil of death
Sent her last blessing unto me!
Thanks, thanks, to Heav'n! my wish, my pray'r,
Hath been for many a changeful year,
That God might spare my life for this—
For this—a mother's heart to cheer.
And now that I have seen her age
Made glad, have seen her die in peace,
Careless and tranquil I await
The term of this my mortal race.
Hath been for many a changeful year,
That God might spare my life for this—
For this—a mother's heart to cheer.
And now that I have seen her age
Made glad, have seen her die in peace,
Careless and tranquil I await
The term of this my mortal race.
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