Poems (Sewell)/The Mother's Invitation

by Mary Young Sewell

THE MOTHER'S INVITATION.

Oh come! my feeble arms I spread—
 It is thy Mother calls, my child!
Thy gentle home thou need'st not dread,
 For Mercy it is meek and mild!

Thy famish'd, hollow looks I've seen,
 Thy trembling steps, unknown to thee!
Thy pallid cheek, and wretched mien,
 Have cancell'd all thy wrongs to me!

Oh! turn thee from the fatal snare,
 Which led thee from my hopes astray;
For all thy dreams are now despair,—
 And cold and dark is all thy way!

And oh! when Mis'ry and Decay,
 Shall seize thee for their prey forlorn,
Thy flatt'rers then will turn away,
 In terror leave thee!—or in scorn!

And who shall cheer thy closing eye?
 And who shall watch thy fainting breath?—
Still wou'd I sooth thy latest sigh,
 And nurse thee on the bed of Death!

Tho' cold and cheerless is thy home,
 And long, alas! has prov'd to me!
Not much my child wou'd feel the gloom—
 A shelter wou'd it prove to thee!—

No keen reproaches shou'dst thou feel—
 Thy poignant griefs I wou'd console,
And many a pray'r of heartfelt zeal,
 Shou'd sue for mercy to thy soul!—

Oh! through a Saviour's bleeding love,
 May Heav'n receive thy contrite pray'r!
And grant a better home Above,
 And grant a softer pardon there!