A song you used to sing,

When like a little bird, mother,

With weak and unfledged wing,

I played about your flowing gown

Contented with your smile,

Though all the world should cast a frown

Upon your happy child.

The song I heard last night, mother,

Came floating through the door

As if some angel voice, mother,

Had sung it oft before;

But, O! I missed the patient pause,

The low accustomed tone,

I turned away heart-sick—because

The voice was not your own.

Those dear old songs you used to sing,

That made my heart-beats rhyme,

Have bubbled up from memory’s spring,

Ah! many and many a time.

When thirsty or with thought oppressed,

When tired of the sunshine,

When longing for the shade and rest,

I hear those songs of thine.

They’re just as low and sweet to-day

As when I heard them first;

And though I am so far away,

The field glass though reversed,

Holds still a picture that I love,

Three faces—four with mine—

Another looks from heaven above,

A little face—like thine.