Classic Poem

The marriage rite is over,
And though I turned aside,
To keep the guests from seeing
The tears I could not hide;
I wreathed my face in smiling,
And led my little brother
To greet my father's chosen,
But I could not call her mother.

She is a fair young creature
With a meek and gentle air,
With blue eyes soft and loving,
And silken, sunny hair;
I know my father gives her
The love he bore another,
But if she were an angel,
I could not call her mother.

To-night I heard her singing
A song I used to love,
When its sweetest notes were uttered
By her who sings above;
It pained my heart to hear it,
And my tears I could not smother
For every word was hallowed
By the dear voice of my mother.

My father, in the sunshine
Of the happy days to come,
May half forget the shadow
That darkened our old home;
His heart no more is lonely,
But I and little brother
Must still be orphan children —
God can give us but one mother.

They've borne my mother's picture
From its accustomed place,
And set beside my father's
A younger, fairer face;
They've made her dear old chamber
The boudoir of another,
But I will not forget thee,
My own, my angel mother.