53
SONNET,
TO MY MOTHER, ON HER BIRTH-DAY.
Though now no more in our own smiling home,
Where thou hast made our happy childhood sweet,
And winged the hours with little pleasures—fleet,
But not forgotten—yet where'er we roam,
Whatever paths we may he doomed to stray,
Our hearts, by time unchanged, are fondly thine;
And many a lip, which thou hast taught to pray,
Is asking blessings on thy life's decline.—
And thou shalt still be blest:—the storm is past—
The sim of brighter hopes begins to shine!
Oh not in vain thou hast endured the blast,
Not vainly wrapt thee in a trust divine,
For the long record of thine untired love,
Winged by thy children's blessings, waits above!
Where thou hast made our happy childhood sweet,
And winged the hours with little pleasures—fleet,
But not forgotten—yet where'er we roam,
Whatever paths we may he doomed to stray,
Our hearts, by time unchanged, are fondly thine;
And many a lip, which thou hast taught to pray,
Is asking blessings on thy life's decline.—
And thou shalt still be blest:—the storm is past—
The sim of brighter hopes begins to shine!
Oh not in vain thou hast endured the blast,
Not vainly wrapt thee in a trust divine,
For the long record of thine untired love,
Winged by thy children's blessings, waits above!
