TO MY MOTHER.
Sweet mother, the spirit of sorrowful song Steals over my being to-night;It binds me with fetters so sweet and so strong,My very soul faints as old memories throng, And tinge all the past with their light.
I open my heart to the breezes that play Soft notes on the strings of my lyre—Pale spectres arise of a happier day,Of youth and its pleasures all drifted away; Like ashes bereft of their fire.
The bright happy home of my earlier years, The loved and the loving ones there—How vividly each worshipped image appears,Though seen thro' the mist of my gathering tears, To me they are wondrously fair.
And one—oh, my mother! one dearer than all, One face of all faces I see,
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