I.
I love the sound! The sweetest under Heaven,
That name of mother,—and the proudest, too.
As babes we breathe it, and with seven times seven
Of youthful prayers, and blessings that accrue,
We still repeat the word, with tender steven.
Dearest of friends! dear mother! what we do
This side the grave, in purity of aim,
Is glorified at last by thy good name.
II.
But how forlorn the word, how full of woe,
When she who bears it lies beneath the clod.
In vain the orphan child would call her so,—
She comes not back: her place is up with God.
The wintry winds are wailing o'er the snow;
The flowers are dead that once did grace the sod.
Ah, lose not heart! Some flowers may fade in gloom,
But Hope's a plant grows brightest on the tomb!