To my mother.

ULL twenty years have passed away

They seem now but a single day

Since last I saw thee, mother.
But when I started on my way,

I truly did not mean to stay
So very long a time away -

Away from thee, dear mother.

But I was then a wayward child,
And very young and very wild;
Alas? thou know'st it, mother.
And high my passions wine did foam,
I could no longer stay at home,
I wanted through the world to roam,
Away from thee, dear mother.

I knew not then what now I know,
That through the world where'er you go,
You find no second mother.

I thought then in my foolish mind,
With wild romantic notions blind,
That everywhere I was to find
Human hearts as warm and kind
As the one I left behind

As thine, thou kindest mother.

And so I rushed into the worid,
By stormy, fiery passions whirled
Away from thee, dear mother;

And on the whirlwind did I ride,
Without a goal, without a guide,
Wandering far and wandering wide,
And always farther from thy side-
Thy side, my blessed mother.

I roamed and roamed the world around,
But what I sought I never found,

I never found it, mother.

I sought for nothing more nor less
Than an ideal happiness-

Sought paradise in the wilderness,
And could not find it, mother.

I sought a heart, I sought a soul,
I sought a love, intense and whole-
A deathless love, O mother!
I sought for Joy's unpoisoned wine,
I sought for Glory's stainless shine,
I sought for Wisdom's drossless mine,
Sought men and women all divine,

And never found them, mother.

And wearied by the endless race,
And sickened by the fruitless chase,

Old, cold, and faint, O mother!
With breaking heart and darkened eye,
I bade my soaring hopes good-by,
And weary both of earth and sky,
I laid me down and yearned to die-
To die and rest, O mother.

TO MY MOTHER.

But He whose name be ever blest,

Who loves us most and knows us best,

Took pity on me, mother;

And from his own effulgence bright
Into my soul's abysmal night,
He sent, imparting strength and sight,
A quickening ray of heavenly light
And peace-His peace, O mother.

And now life's stormy days are past;
My weary bark at last, at last,

Has found its haven, mother.

By wild desires no more distrest,
No passion now can heat my breast,
Save one, which has outlived the rest-
The earliest, deepest, and the best-
My love for thee, dear mother.

But thou hast left this vale of tears,
And winged thy way to better spheres,

Far from thy child, O mother!

The boundless gratitude I owe,

The heart-warm love I fain would show,

The tender cares I should bestow,
My thousand debts of long ago-

I cannot pay them here below,
I cannot pay thee, mother.

But thou, so gentle and so mild,
Thou wilt not spurn thy erring child,

Thou wilt forgive me, mother.

155

Behold, the days are running fast,
I'm with the old already classed;
Soon will the darksome vale be passed

Then comes the hour when at last
My spirit arms around thee cast,

I shall repay thee, mother!

Spirit Voices.

HEN the evening shades are creeping
Silently o'er vale and hill,

And the stars above are keeping

Tireless watch o'er earth so still,

Spirits from the bending willow,

Swayed by zephyrs to and fro,

Nightly seek my lonely pillow

With their whispers soft and low,
Breathing strains of long ago.

Strange, sweet music, sometimes bringing

From my heart an answering sigh,
Sometimes gently, sweetly singing
Childhood's early lullaby.

Joyous, then, I seek a token

Of the being whom they sing,
But the charm is rudely broken,
And no loving form they bring,
But depart on viewless wing.
Even now those spirit voices

Fall upon my list'ning ear,

MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.

And my saddened heart rejoices

As their welcome strains I hear;
And I catch from one long cherished
Tones of love that well I know,
Till I quite forget she perished,
And with tears was buried low
'Neath the willow long ago.

My Mother's Grave.

Y mother's grave, my mother's grave!
O! dreamless is her slumber there,

Mot devam

And drowsily the banners wave

O'er her that was so chaste and fair!

Yea, love is dead and memory faded!
But when the dew is on the brake,

And silence sleeps on earth and sea,

And mourners weep, and ghosts awake,
Oh, then she cometh back to me,

In her cold beauty darkly shaded!

I cannot guess her face or form;

But what to me is form or face?

I do not ask the weary worm

To give me back each buried grace Of glistening eyes, or trailing tresses!

I only feel that she is here,

And that we meet, and that we part;
And that I drink within mine ear,

157