My Mother! O my Mother! when thy spirit heavenward fled,
And thy aged form, in death's embrace, lay on thy lonely bed;
No hand to raise thy head and wipe the death-drops from thy brow,
Or o'er thee breathe a weeping prayer-alone with Death wert thou.
Yet not alone! for in thy ear, and on thy glazing eye,
Were angel whispers breathed, and dawned the Sun of Glory's sky;
And when thy daughter stood and gazed upon thy tranquil face,
It seemed to her thy features wore a calm celestial grace.
Thy ardent prayers, thy tender cares, thy deep and patient love,
How dearly prized-how sorely missed since thou wert called above!
For I, a mother, bend beneath a mother's heavy cares,
And still I ask of Heaven to reap the fruit of Mother's prayers.
When trials crowd, and sorrows press, and fears my bosom chill,
My Mother, then I seem to hear thy loving accents still;
And still it seems as if to thee my sorrows I must tell-
Oh joy, we soon shall meet! till then, my Mother, fare thee well!