Written at My Mother's Grave

The trembling dew-drops fall
TJpon the shutting flowers; like souls at rest
The stars shine gloriously: and all
Save me, are blest.
Mother, I love thy grave!
The violet, with its blossoms blue and mild,
Waves o'er thy head; when shall it wave
Above thy child?
'T is a sweet flower, yet must
Its bright leaves to the coming tempest bow;
Dear mother, 't is thine emblem; dust
Is on thy brow.

And I could love to die:
To leave untasted life's dark, bitter streams —
By thee, as erst in childhood, lie,
And share thy dreams.
And I must linger here,
To stain the plumage of my sinless years,
And mourn the hopes to childhood dear
With bitter tears.
Ay, I must linger here,
A lonely branch upon a wither'd tree,
Whose last frail leaf, untimely sere,
Went down with thee!

Oft, from life's wither'd bower,
In still communion with the past, I turn,
And muse on thee, the only flower
In memory's urn.
And, when the evening pale
Bows, like a mourner, on the dim, blue wave,
I stray to hear the night-winds wail
Around thy grave.
Where is thy spirit flown?
I gaze above — thy look is imaged there;
I listen — and thy gentle tone
Is on the air.

O, come, while here I press
My brow upon thy grave; and, in those mild
And thrilling tones of tenderness.
Bless, bless thy child!
Yes, bless your weeping child;
And o'er thine urn — religion's holiest shrine —
O, give his spirit, undefiled,
To blend with thine.