Classic Poem

Mother , there's no soft hand comes now
To smooth the dark curls o'er my brow;
I hear no voice so low and mild
As that which breathed " my own loved child. "
No smile will greet, no lips will press,
No prayer will rise, no words will bless,
So fond, so dear, so true for me
As those I ever met from thee.

Oh! that my soul could melt in tears,
And die beneath the pain it bears;
The grief that springs, the thoughts that goad,
Become a heavy maddening load;
For all that heart and memory blends
But hotly scathes and sorely rends;
And feeling, with its biting fangs,
Tortures with sharp and bleeding pangs.

My Mother! thou did'st prophesy
With sighing tone and weeping eye
That the cold world would never be
A kindred resting-place for me.
Oh, thou wert right! I cannot find
One sympathetic link to bind,
But where some dark alloy comes in
To mar with folly, wrong, or sin.

My Mother! thou did'st know full well
My spirit was not fit to dwell
With crowds who dream not of the ray
That burns the very soul away.
That ray is mine; 'tis held from God,
But scourges like a blazing rod.
And never glows with fiercer flame
Than when 'tis kindled at thy name.

My Mother! thou art remembered yet
With doting love and keen regret;
My birthday finds me once again
In fervent sorrow, deep as vain.
Thou art gone for ever, I must wait
The will of Heaven, the work of fats
And faith can yield no hope for me
Brighter than that of meeting thee.