To My Mother

My mother! — Manhood's anxious brow
And sterner cares have long been mine;
Yet turn" I to thee fondly now,
As when upon thy bosom's shrine
My infant griefs were gently hush'd to rest,
And thy low-whisper'd prayers my slumber bless'd.

I never call that gentle name,
My mother! but I am again
E'en as a child; the very same
That prattled at thy knee; and fain
Would I forget, in momentary joy,
That I no more can be thy happy boy; —

The artless boy, to whom thy smile
Was sunshine, and thy frown sad night,
(Though rare that frown, and brief the while
It veil'd from me thy loving light ;)
For well-conn'd task, ambition's highest bliss,
To win from thine approving lips a kiss.

I've loved through foreign lands to roam,
And gazed o'er many a classic scene;
Yet would the thought of that dear home,
Which once was ours, oft intervene,
And bid me close again my weary eye
To think of thee, and those sweet days gone by.

That pleasant home of fruits and flowers,
Where, by the Hudson's verdant side
My sisters wove their jasmine bowers,
And he, we loved, at eventide
Would hastening come from distant toil to bless
Thine, and his children's radiant happiness.

Alas, the change! the rattling car
On flint-paved streets profanes the spot,
Where o'er the sod, we sow'd the Star
Of Bethlehem, and Forget-me-not.
Oh, wo to Mammon's desolating reign!
We ne'er shall find on earth a home again!

I've pored o'er many a yellow page
Of ancient wisdom, and have won,
Perchance, a scholar's name — but sage
Or bard have never taught thy son
Lessons so dear, so fraught with holy truth,
As those his mother's faith shed on his youth.

If, by the Saviour's grace made meet,
My God will own my life and love,
Methinks, when singing at His feet,
Amid the ransom'd throng above,
Thy name upon my glowing lips shall be,
And I will bless that grace for heaven and thee.

For thee and heaven; for thou didst tread
The way that leads me heavenward, and
My often wayward footsteps led
In the same path with patient hand;
And when I wander'd far, thy earnest call
Restored my soul from sin's deceitful thrall.

I have been bless'd with other ties,
Fond ties and true, yet never deem
That I the less thy fondness prize;
No, mother! in my warmest dream
Of answer'd passion, through this heart of mine
One chord will vibrate to no name but thine.

Mother! thy name is widow — well
I know no love of mine can fill
The waste place of thy heart, or dwell
Within one sacred recess: still
Lean on the faithful bosom of thy son,
My parent, thou art mine, my only one!