Pure on Olympus shines the sun-touched snow; Or skimmed at eve the glassy waters, where My heart was with thee, Mother! and a sigh,— When thou wert standing 'mid thy own home trees, To breathe at day's sweet fall the evening breeze, As the soft south wind kissed thy forehead mild,— Came to thee murmuring from thy absent child, Freighted with longings after days gone by. And oft, how oft, within their festive bowers, I only shared not in the joyance there. I knew them heartless, and I felt them cold, And strange sad visions o'er my soul would come, Of a far land, and of a lowly home,— Of one dear voice that spoke but to approve,— One beaming smile,- one fondly clasping hand! Sweet is the memory of a mother's love Dwelling with strangers, in a stranger land. Mother! methinks, it is a sacred word :- Of childhood's days,-of first fresh feelings rush The morning prayer when all was soft and still,- The bank all pale with primroses below. Ah! plodding sadly on life's sterner track, Mother! sweet mother! first and fondest friend, A blessing on his work, with prayers and tears, Inscribes upon his first and fairest page, That name—the holiest-which he most reveres, Which, with a trembling hand and many a fear, Grove House, Richmond, 1836. |