Page:Poems Denver.djvu/271

And it spoke of a mother's tireless love,
Of her daily prayers to the throne above;—
Oh, sweet is a mother's murmured tone
Of whispered love for a distant one!
It spoke of that voice of melody,
Of the soft fond glance of the loving eye,
Of the quiet smile and affection's tear
To the exile's heart in death more dear.

Alas, sweet mother! your hopes were bright,
But a shadow is crossing their path of light!
Alas for the gentle sister's smile!
Hope will no more with fair visions beguile;
But sorrow its gloom on their pathway spread,
Sighs for the living, and tears for the dead.
Alas! for the home and the happy hearth,
For sadness is resting where once was mirth!

A change comes over the exile's brow,
For death is claiming his victim now;
No more will sorrow her gloom impart,
To make a tomb of the living heart.
The whispered tone of that voice is still,
The bosom has felt its last deep thrill,
And cold and hard is the death-closed eye,
Once mild as the depths of a summer sky.

When the sun went down in the tranquil west,
His spirit had passed to its final rest;
Yet a tear will moisten reflection's eye,
As memory turns to the exile's sigh;