THE DYING MOTHER.
On breezy pinion, mournful eve came singing
Over the silent hills, and to the glades
And violet-beds a stream of odors bringing,
And waking music in the forest shades;
For 't was the time, when the lone cotter, wending
His silent way along the footpaths dim,
Sought his loved home, where gentle voices blending
Sent up the music of an evening hymn.
Over the silent hills, and to the glades
And violet-beds a stream of odors bringing,
And waking music in the forest shades;
For 't was the time, when the lone cotter, wending
His silent way along the footpaths dim,
Sought his loved home, where gentle voices blending
Sent up the music of an evening hymn.
A lovely length of moonlit waters lightly
Broke into sudden brightness on the strand,
While through the sky's soft fleecy fret-work brightly
The stars looked out upon the stilly land;
But sadly 'neath them gleamed two lovely faces,
(O! fearful things and sad the stars do see,)
For they were strangers roaming through strange places—
A mother with her boy beside her knee.
Broke into sudden brightness on the strand,
While through the sky's soft fleecy fret-work brightly
The stars looked out upon the stilly land;
But sadly 'neath them gleamed two lovely faces,
(O! fearful things and sad the stars do see,)
For they were strangers roaming through strange places—
A mother with her boy beside her knee.
Her only shelter was the blue-arched heaven,
As to her child's she bent her earnest face,
For well she knew another whispering even
Would find her form a thing for Death's embrace;
As to her child's she bent her earnest face,
For well she knew another whispering even
Would find her form a thing for Death's embrace;
