Mother, though not on that pure brow
One earthly shade appears,
That radiant head has been bowed down,
Those eyes been filled with tears.
Thou knowest the bitterness of grief,
The mortal pang and strife
Of hopes that look beyond the grave,
Of ties that bind to life.
I feel the damp upon my brow,
The flush upon my cheek;
My languid pulse, my failing breath,
More weary and more weak.
Ah! little should she think of love
Whose steps are on the grave;
Of love, the almighty to destroy,
The powerless to save.
It is in vain; I cannot pray,
And yet not think his name;
It may be silent on my lips,
'Tis in my heart the same.
The love of happy childhood's years,
The love of youth's first vow;
The same through sickness, grief, and wrong,
May not be banished now.
I know no more my evening song
Will rise at twilight dim;
I know this is my latest prayer,—
Well, let it breathe for him.
His sails are spread; Madonna, keep
The tempest from the sky;
Bless thou the bridal which he seeks—
And let me go and die!L. E. L.
