Filial Grief

The love that blest our infant dream,That dried our earliest tear,The tender voice, the winning smileThat made our home so dear,The hand that urged our youthful thoughtO'er low delights to soar,Whose pencil wrote upon our souls,Alas! is ours no more.

Go, lay the Bible that she lov'd,Upon her coffin lid,Its spirit like a precious balmDeep in her breast was hid,And daily o'er its page she bentWith calm and saintly brow,It was her chosen friend through life:Take it not from her now.

Bring forth, bring forth the plants she rear'dTo the freest sun and air,And daily o'er their welfare watchWith all a florist's care,—

Nor let a blossom that she nurs'd,A stem she taught to twine,By aught of cold forgetfulnessDroop on the parent vine.

And in our hearts the germs she placed,With the warm trust of prayer,Still fondly cherish for her sakeWith unabated care;Deep fear of God, good will to man,Religion's meek pursuit,These were the seeds our mother sowed,—Let them bear perfect fruit.