Poems (Douglas)/To the Memory of my Mother

by Sarah Parker Douglas

To the Memory of my Mother.

WRITTEN AFTER HER DEATH IN FEBRUARY, 1850.

Thou art gone from us, Mother—the green turf is o'er thee,
 Deep now thy repose in the lone, silent earth;
We weep, but our tear-drops can never restore thee,
 All loved as thou wert, to our home and our hearth.

Life's journey to thee, kindest Mother, is ended,
 And varied the paths thou has trod on thy way:.
Joy's sunbeams have shown, and grief's showers have descended,
 But thine is no longer the storm or the ray.

The cup of affliction thou shrank'st not from draining,
 Nor fell from thy pale lips one murmuring breath,
For thy Saviour, thy trust, thy bowed spirit sustaining,
 Consoled thee throughout the dark valley of death.

'Twere selfish, my Mother, were we to regret thee,
 Removed to that holier, happier sphere,
But never through time or change shall we forget thee:
 Whilst mem'ry can brood o'er thy tenderness here.

A mournful, yet sweet consolation we'll borrow
 From oft-times recalling thy patience, thy trust,
And still as we name thee the big tear of sorrow
 Shall flow to thy memory—thou laid in the dust.

Even now do the scenes of each young recollection
 Come back with the light of that happier time:
Thou art with us again, with thy tones of affection,
 In our old distant home, 'mid our gardens in prime.

We cluster around thee beneath the broad shadow
 The sycamore flings on the green sunny earth,
Or roam by thy side through the soft verdant meadow,
 When the pale dewy primrose in sweetness has birth.

Thou art pointing to dazzling clouds brightly reposing
 Along the rich west of a sun-setting sky,
And telling us pure spirits, after life's closing,
 Soar far 'bove that splendour, to never failing joy.

Oh! blest be those early days, bright and unclouded
 The memory of all thy past kindness and care;
And hallowed thy clay in the snowy robe shrouded,
 And laid in thy church-yard to slumber, O Ayr.

Oh! sadly we miss thee, who calmly art sleeping,
 Not neath the blue skies of thine own native plains—
The breeze of a stranger land softly is sweeping
 The green grass which covers thy sacred remains.

Thou art gone from us, Mother; yet, while we deplore thee,
 We mourn not as those without hope, for we feel
That a great and a glorious change has come o'er thee,
 Too wondrous for us to conceive or reveal.