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TO MY MOTHER.
I see again In memory the bright and happy throngAround the old piano, joining in the evening song.There Mary sung the sweetest, and woke the deepest thrillOf all the youthful voices that floated o'er the hill.Poor "Mary," how we loved her, with her bright and laughing ways;Her spirit steals upon me now, a "light of other days,"But trouble came upon her from the day she was a bride,Though she never, never murmured; of her silent grief she died.And he who won her from us sleeps in death beside her now—Spring flowers bright are blossoming above his icy brow.Two little orphan children, playing 'round the cottage door,Recall their mother's childhood from the happy days of yore.My father's younger brother, scarcely older than the rest,Is wedded to the playmate that I always loved the best.
