Page:Poems Cook.djvu/99

I miss thee, my Mother, in summer's fair day,
 When I rest in the ivy-wreathed bower;
When I hang thy pet linnet's cage high on the spray,
 Or gaze on thy favourite flower.
There's the bright gravel-path where I play'd by thy side,
 When Time had scarce wrinkled thy brow,
Where I carefully led thee with worshipping pride,
 When thy glossy locks gather'd the snow.

I miss thee, my Mother, in winter's long night:
 I remember the tales thou wouldst tell—
The romance of wild fancy, the legend of fright—
 Oh who could e'er tell them so well?
Thy corner is vacant; thy chair is removed;
 It was kind to take that from my eye:
Yet relics are round me—the sacred and loved—
 To call up the pure sorrow-fed sigh.

I miss thee, my Mother, oh, when do I not?
 Though I know 'twas the wisdom of Heaven
That the deepest shade fell on my sunniest spot;
 And such tie of devotion was riven.
For when thou wert with me, my soul was below;
 I was chain'd to the world I then trod;
My affections, my thoughts, were all earth-bound; but now
 They have follow'd thy spirit to God!

 

---

83