My Mother's Grave

In beauty lingers on the hillsThe death-smile of the dying day;And twilight in my heart instillsThe softness of its rayI watch the river's peaceful flow,Here, standing by my mother's grave,And feel my dreams of glory go,Like weeds upon its sluggish wave.

God gives us ministers of loveWhich we regard not, being near;Death takes them from us, then we feelThat angels have been with us here!As mother, sister, friend, or wife,They guide us, cheer us, soothe our pain,And when the grave has closed betweenOur hearts and theirs, we love—in vain!

Would, mother! thou couldst hear me tellHow oft, amid my brief career,For sins and follies loved too wellHath fall'n the free repentant tear.And, in my waywardness of youth,How bitter thoughts have given to meContempt for error, love for truth,Mid sweet remembrances of thee.

The harvest of my youth is done,And manhood, come with all its cares,Finds, garnered up within my heart,For every flower a thousand tares.Dear mother! couldst thou know my thoughts,Whilst bending o'er this holy shrine,The depth of feeling in my breast,Thou wouldst not blush to call me thine!