  Nine months after writing this poem, my mother died, Dec. 21st, 1894. My vision eye beholds a form, Bent low by years of life's fierce storm, That moves with feeble tread; Though time has worn that weary frame The heart still keeps its sacred flame True, undiminished. No power but Death can ever quell— No mortal tongue can ever tell A mother's boundless love; 'Tis shadowed in the secret sigh, Or in the moisture of the eye— E'en silence, it may prove. Itself and I had but one birth, It came from heaven to gladden earth— And brighten man's abode; To feel the magic of its power Is richer boon than any dower The earth has yet bestowed. Favored in this has been my lot; Relentless Death has robbed me not— Though fifty years have flown, Of all the ecstasy and joy That came to me when but a boy, Or since to manhood grown, Of that benign maternal smile, Whose magic influence can beguile My heart from worldly care, And lead me toward that beacon-light Of motive pure and act aright, No matter when or where. O blessed influence of the past! May all my mother's counsels last Until my heart shall cease To send its crimson current round The tenement wherein 'tis bound, And Death shall bring release. Still let these visions come to me Of her I would so gladly see Though far from her I roam; They bring sweet memory of the past, Which but a few more years may last, Of happiness and home. |
|
