8
TO MY MOTHER.
But now, far away from the place of my birth, I sit in my sorrow and weep;Death's shadow is clinging about the old hearth,And long summer grass rustles over the earth Where my father is resting asleep.
When Faith's holy crown shone upon his white hair, As through the dark valley he trod,He lifted his soul in this passionate prayer:"Let none—oh! not one of them be missing there When I count them before Thee, O God."
