To My Mother

I AM weeping, mother, in your empty chamber ;
Beyond the pane, a fair famiUar scene ;
As a far dream only may the man remember
All the mirth of childhood that hath been—
Hath been here about thy young joy, O my mother.
All the mirth and laughter of a child !
Was it I, indeed, and not another,
Whom you folded in your dear armsundefiled?
(Jur nursery with snowy-folded curtain !
Here you came to bless the dreaming boy ;
All is melted to a memory uncertain,
Evening prayer, the game, and many a toy.
Clad in tender vivid verdure, early summer
Kindles leaf and bloom about the land.
While the nightingale, our passionate early comer,
Overflows in song for one at hand.
Winds the river in the valley by the meadow,
By the old grey bridge, anear the water-mill ;
Old elms are on the green lawn with their shadow,
A bloom involves the orchard on the hill.
You were wonttogivemeorange-petal candied,
From the china bird, laid yonder near the clock. . . .
Ah ! visionary' seasons, are ye banded
To weave illusion round me and to mock ?
In the chestnut grove our nest, where in the leaf-time
We children took our strawberries and tea.
Hath fallen ; dove, and cuckoo here renew their brief time,
Pale primrose, and the windflower, woodanemone.
While I recall delightful days of childhood
In the home of our forefathers when, from school
I came to wander with you in the wild wood.
And my happiness ran over, very full.
How I lingered on the hard road in the damp night,
When you left me at my school, until aloof
I beheld no more your lessening line of lamplight.
Nor heard the minished trample of the hoof !
Among German forest-firs you tell the story.
As we go, her hand who died, and mine in yours.
Ah ! the bonfire on the hillside, and the gloiy
Of our rural meal among the bilberry bowers !
Then a cottage o'er a torrent-haunted valley
In the summer-sounding vines was our abode,
Where Morn and Eve upon the mount continually
Wrought a robe of glory, as for God.
Yearly, later, on an evening of the winter weather.
With our youngest born who died we came to you :
On arrival, what a welcome, at the meal we ate together,
You gave to weans, and wife, and me, so tender and so true ! . . .
All our converse in my manhood ! by the healthful ocean-margin,
Or where we loved to hail the holy morningglow,
Beyond blue water, on the mountain men have named the Virgin,-
On the glory of her heavenward height of pure and solemn snow.