 | The magic fountain |  |
132
A FAREWELL.
O still on memory dawns the torturing Morn,
That from my Mother's roof beheld me torn!
—I left the humble cot, but durst not tell
My desperate, dark intent, nor say—Farewell.
An aged parent—relic frail of one
Who, sainted, grieves not o'er his wife and son—
With pure maternal fondness all her own,
Walked by my side, and spoke—in wonted tone;
Yet with unwonted eagerness I drank
The sounds—and deep into my heart they sank.
Thus on we passed, until across the road
A mountain streamlet sparkled as it flowed—
Here stood my Mother. Still around her mind
The tales believed in childhood strongly twined.
That from my Mother's roof beheld me torn!
—I left the humble cot, but durst not tell
My desperate, dark intent, nor say—Farewell.
An aged parent—relic frail of one
Who, sainted, grieves not o'er his wife and son—
With pure maternal fondness all her own,
Walked by my side, and spoke—in wonted tone;
Yet with unwonted eagerness I drank
The sounds—and deep into my heart they sank.
Thus on we passed, until across the road
A mountain streamlet sparkled as it flowed—
Here stood my Mother. Still around her mind
The tales believed in childhood strongly twined.
133
“Why have I come? Who part at stream or river,
My son, are parted long—perhaps for ever!”
Another time these words had yielded mirth,
But then they gave to keenest anguish birth;
For dark forebodings thrilled my bosom through,
That now the awful omen might be true.
“How foolish, mother!” and I turned aside
My pang-distorted countenance to hide.
Then, with my bundle under arm, I took
Of her that gave me life, a farewell look!
She marked not—for no tear-drop sought to start,
Though viper-woes were busy at my heart.
She marked it not—and I thenceforth became
A wandering wretch, bereft of ease and fame!
My son, are parted long—perhaps for ever!”
Another time these words had yielded mirth,
But then they gave to keenest anguish birth;
For dark forebodings thrilled my bosom through,
That now the awful omen might be true.
“How foolish, mother!” and I turned aside
My pang-distorted countenance to hide.
Then, with my bundle under arm, I took
Of her that gave me life, a farewell look!
She marked not—for no tear-drop sought to start,
Though viper-woes were busy at my heart.
She marked it not—and I thenceforth became
A wandering wretch, bereft of ease and fame!
1820.
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