TO MY MOTHER.
7
Whose smile we can never, no never recall—'T is lying so still 'neath the white silken pall— Is more than all others to me,
In the same cherished home where you dwelt as his bride, Where your little ones clung to your breast,You lovingly walked through the years at his side,And wept all your heart-broken grief when he died, And they laid him away to his rest.
The years have been seven and thirty to-day, Dear mother, since first you were wed;Your bright cheek has faded, your hair has grown gray,While his is like snow on his forehead of clay, As he lies in the midst of the dead.
O mother, how well I remember this day Last year, and how happy we were,As we sat at your table so merry and gay,And father would count us—he said 't was his way— To be sure that the last one was there!
