BY MRS. S. E. WIRICK.

To be a prisoner's mother
Is to feel a piercing dart

That sets the mind a-whirling
And almost cleaves the heart.

To be a prisoner's mother
Is, upon a holiday,

To visit him in prison,
Then part and go away.

To be a prisoner's mother
'Tis, inside the lonely wall,

To say, "Farewell, my darling"—
Oh, I almost faint and fall.

No resting place but heaven,
No happy morn that dawns;

Our home so drear and lonely
Because our boy is gone.

An empty bed, a missing plate,
A grief that inward burns;

No balm on earth to heal our hearts
Until our boy returns.

"Honor and shame from no condition rise;
Act well your part, there all the honor lies."