A RICH MAN'S REVERIE.
27
Oh, mother, I've never found love like thine,Never have eyes looked into mineWith such proud love, such perfect trust.Never have hands been so true and kind,To lead me into the path of right—Hands so gentle, and soft, and white,That on my head like a blessing lay,And led me a child and guided my youth;To-night 'tis a dreary thought, in truth,That those gentle hands are dust.That I may be blamed, and yon not be sad,That I may be praised, and you not be glad;'Tis a dreary thought to your boy to-night,That over your sweet smile, over your brow,The clay-cold turf is pressing now,That never again as the twilight fallsYou will welcome your boy to the old brown wallsOf the homestead far away.
The homestead is ruined—gone to decay,But we read of a house not made with hands,Whose firm foundation forever stands;And there is a twilight soft and sweet.Will she not stand with outstretched handsMy homesick eyes to meet—To welcome her boy as in days before,To home, and to rest, forevermore?
