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THE DYING MOTHER.
To the Redeemer, whom in days of youth
She served and honour'd, and went home—went home.
—And now, Heaven bless thee, babe, whose tiny bark
Is launch'd so lonely on this tossing sea
Of time and change; and mid thy future course,
If here, in our dark clime, thy years unfold,
Bind her fair image to thy loving heart,
My little one, and let thy father hear
From thy young lips the same rejoicing words
Of piety and peace, which thrill'd his heart
With grateful prayer when at his fireside sat
The chosen idol of his early love.
