Mother come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep; -
Rock me to sleep, mother,- rock me to sleep!
Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears,—
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,—
Take them, and give me my childhood again!
I have grown weary of dust and decay,-
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;
Weary of sowing for others to reap; —
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep!
Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed and faded, our faces between:
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain
Long I to-night for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep; -
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep!
Over my heart, in the days that are flown,
No love like mother-love ever has shone;
No other worship abides and endures,-
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours:
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and world-weary brain.
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep; Rock me to sleep, mother,— rock me to sleep!
Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead to-night,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep; —
Rock me to sleep, mother,— rock me to sleep!
Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since I last listened your lullaby song:
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood's years have been only a dream.
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep; -
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep!
*From "The World's Best Poetry." A. C. McClurg & Co.
I miss thee, my Mother! Thy image is still
The deepest impressed on my heart,
And the tablet so faithful in death must be chill
Ere a line of that image depart.
Thou wert torn from my side when I treasured thee
When my reason could measure thy worth; When I knew but too well that the idol I'd lost Could be never replaced upon earth.
I miss thee, my Mother, in circles of joy,
Where I've mingled with rapturous zest;
For how slight is the touch that will serve to destroy All the fairy web spun in my breast!
Some melody sweet may be floating around
'Tis a ballad I learned at thy knee;
Some strain may be played, and I shrink from the sound,
For my fingers oft woke it for thee.
I miss thee, my Mother; when young health has fled, And I sink in the languor of pain,
Where, where is the arm that once pillowed my head,
And the ear that once heard me complain?
Other hands may support, gentle accents may fall.
For the fond and the true are yet mine:
I've a blessing for each; I am grateful to all
But whose care can be soothing as thine?
I miss thee, my Mother, in summer's fair day,
When I rest in the ivy-wreathed bower,
When I hang thy pet linnet's cage high on the spray,
Or gaze on thy favorite flower.
There's the bright gravel path where I played by thy
When time had scarce wrinkled thy brow,
Where I carefully led thee with worshiping pride
When thy scanty locks gathered the snow.
I miss thee, my Mother, in winter's long night:
I remember the tales thou wouldst tell
The romance of wild fancy, the legend of fright -
Oh! who could e'er tell them so well?
Thy corner is vacant; thy chair is removed:
It was kind to take that from my eye:
Yet relics are round me - the sacred and loved-
To call up the pure sorrow-fed sigh.
I miss thee, my Mother! Oh, when do I not?
Though I know 'twas the wisdom of Heaven
That the deepest shade fell on my sunniest spot,
And such tie of devotion was riven;
For when thou wert with me my soul was below,
I was chained to the world I then trod;
My affections, my thoughts, were all earth-bound; but
They have followed thy spirit to God!
"The heart that we have lain near before our birth, is the only one that cannot forget that it has loved us."
My birthday! O beloved mother!
My heart is with thee o'er the seas!
I did not think to count another
Before I wept upon thy knees
Before this scroll of absent years
Was blotted with thy streaming tears.
My own I do not care to check
I weep-
As if I hung upon thy neck,
As if thy lips were on my own,
As if this full, sad heart of mine,
Were beating closely upon thine.
Four weary years! How looks she now?
What light is in those tender eyes?
What trace of time has touched the brow
Whose look is borrowed of the skies
That listen to her nightly prayer?
How is she changed since he was there?
Who sleeps upon her heart alway
Whose name upon her lips is worn
For whom the night seems made to pray-
For whom she wakes to pray at morn
Whose sight is dim, whose heart-strings stir,
Who weeps these tears to think of her!
I know not if my mother's eyes
Would find me changed in slighter things;
I've wandered beneath many skies,
And tasted of some bitter springs;
And many leaves, once fair and gay,
From youth's full flower have dropped away But, as these looser leaves depart,
|