  'If e'er the blest to earth descend, O come, my mother and my friend, And God by thee will comfort send, To cheer this gloom! Epitaph in a Country Church-Yard. My Mother! o'er thy lowly grave The stormy winds may blow, And spreading branches rudely wave, Nor break thy rest below. The bird that mounts on joyous wing, To hail the rising day, Though sweet the careless warbler sing, Pours not for thee his lay! The stranger, as with pensive eye, He scans thy burial-stone, May heave, perchance, a transient sigh For sorrows of his own; But few of all the friendly band Who smiled thy face to see, Untouched by the Destroyer's hand, Remain to think of thee! Yet often, mingling with the crowd Who thronged yon house of prayer, In humble posture thou hast bowed, And loved to worship there. The solemn notes of sacred lays Which through those arches rung, Once filled thy heart with grateful praise, And trembled on thy tongue! And oft thy sympathizing breast The passing tribute gave, As lightly on the turf thou pressed, Which covers now thy grave! I stood beside the hallowed ground, That marks thy resting-place, When rolling years had soothed the wound Which Time can ne'er efface. And scenes a mother's kindness wove, When life and hope were new, Bearing the record of her love, Came rising to my view: I thought on all thy tender care, Thy nature sweet and mild, Which used my little griefs to share, And blessed me when a child. Long, long within the silent tomb Thy cherished form has laid, And other woes have chased the gloom That dark bereavement made; Yet bright to Memory's fond survey Each lineament appears, As when it shed its living ray On eyes undimmed by tears! No more the buoyant hopes of youth Their wonted joy impart, And childhood's dream of changeless truth Has ceased to warm my heart; But while its languid pulses move, Life's crimson tide to bear, The sweet remembrance of thy love Shall still be treasured there! X. |
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