TO MY MOTHER.
23
When we grew and played together through many varied years—Some hours bright and golden, some embalmed in precious tears.Ah! those visions of my childhood, how they crowd about me now,As memory's hand is sweeping back the shadow from my brow!I love to think upon them, love the dreamy light they castAbout the silent chambers of the unforgotten past,I cannot tell you, Mother, all the burning thoughts that comeAnd fill my heart, when thinking of my childhood's happy home.The friends that now are scattered, who in youth were gathered there.One by one they glide before me, like sweet spirits in the air;They come around me lovingly, and bear my spirit backSo gently and so tenderly along the olden track.They carry me, dear Mother, to the old house on the hill,With its quaint old-fashioned parlor—how well I love it still!
