Poems (Frances Elizabeth Browne)/On the death of my mother
ON THE DEATH OF MY MOTHER.
My gourd is withered!—she is gone Who most could wake my hopes and fears,Of all beloved the dearest one, The dearest from my earliest years.
My mother! O, on that loved name How oft will fond remembrance dwell!Earth ne'er can know a tenderer claim,— A mother's fondness who can tell?
With what a sweet, seraphic smile Her mild, her gentle spirit fled, So much like life, that for a while We scarcely could believe her dead.
So calm she looked, her lips apart Appeared as if about to move,Some fond memento to impart, Some parting token of her love.
Yet, mother, would thy mourning child (Could she) recall thee here below,Though then she cried, with anguish wild, "Spare me, O God, this trial"?—No.
In mercy thou wert but removed From sorrows yet to come, and woe;And, fondly as thou wert beloved, That very love would answer, No.
Farewell, dear mother! thou art blest; Thou slumberest with the peaceful dead;And oft thy child, with grief opprest, Would lay by thine her weary head.
Farewell, till in a happier sphere, When earthly sorrows grieve no more,They whom the grave has severed here Heaven's opening portals shall restore.