In beauty lingers on the hills
The death-smile of the dying day;
And twilight in my heart instills
The softness of its ray
I 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 love
Which we regard not, being near;
Death takes them from us, then we feel
That 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 between
Our hearts and theirs, we love—in vain!
Would, mother! thou couldst hear me tell
How oft, amid my brief career,
For sins and follies loved too well
Hath fall'n the free repentant tear.
And, in my waywardness of youth,
How bitter thoughts have given to me
Contempt 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!