O, no, he will not come to-night,--
The stars are fading from the sky;
I've watch'd their dim, expiring light,
With an unwearied, earnest eye,

And soon the golden king of day
Morn's eastern gates will open wide;
And mounted on his fiery car,
Triumphant over earth will ride.

And she array'd in robes of green,
Adorned with vari'gated flowers,
Will welcome him with smiling mien,
While soft winds sigh along the bowers.

He'll kiss the roses on her cheek,
And dry the tear-drop from her eye,--
Cast a glad smile o'er all her face,
And gild each stream that glances by.

And she'll spread out her tempting store
Of fruits and flow'ers, to his warm ray;
He'll touch them with his genial smile,
As glad he runs his joyous way.

But soon his journey will be o'er,
And the dun curtains of the west,
Will hide his beams, while low he sinks
Upon the pillow of his rest.

And soft will steal the twilight hour,
And bring again my watch for thee;
Oh, who may tell a mother's love,
Or fathom that unbounded sea?

Time, that has pass'd with rapid flight,
On silent pinions, hurrying by,
Has witness'd oft the midnight watch,
Of the fond mother's earnest eye.

In infancy, when feverish dreams
Disturb'd her darling as he slept,
How anxious was the mother's watch,
As she her nightly vigil kept.

Her watch is o'er the cradle cast,
Through childhood's wild and flow'ry maze;
Her hand would lead through youth's gay scenes,
And smooth the path of riper days.

Would shield from each impending ill,--
Would guard from ev'ry dang'rous snare.
Instruct the reason, curb the will,
And lift to heaven the trusting prayer.

And should the pois'nous flowers that bloom
Beside his path, tempt him to rove,
To bring the thoughtless wanderer back,--
How earnest is a mother's love.

And so we watch from youth to age,--
From the soft cradle to the grave;
No power can check a mother's love,
That would from sin and sorrow save.