Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/96

ELIJAH P. LOVEJOY. [1830-40 MY MOTHER. There is a fire that burns on earth, A pure and holy flame ; It came to men from heavenly birth, And still it is the same. As when it burned the chords along That bore the first-born seraph's song ; Sweet as the hymn of gratitude That swelled to heaven when 'all was good :' No passion in the choirs above Is purer than a mother's love ! My mother ! how that name endears, Through Memory's griefs, and Sorrow's ^ tears ! I see thee now, as I have seen, With thy young boy beside thee — Thou didst not know, nor couldst thou deem The ills that would betide me ; For sorrow then had dimmed that eye, Which beamed with only ecstacy ! Ah ! life was then a joyous thing. And time bore pleasure on its wing. How buoyant did the minutes move. For I was hope and thou wert love. Beneath thy smiles I closed the day, And met them at the morning ray ; My infant heart was full of glee. And every chord struck harmony. And often as there would betide Some little griefs my heart to gall, I bore them to my mother's side, And one kind kiss dispelled them all. And I have knelt with thee — when none Were near but thou and I — In trembling awe before the throne Of mercy in the sky ; And when thy melted heart was poured Before the Being thou adored. How holy was that prayer of thine. Fit ofiijring for a heavenly shrine — Not for thyself a wish — not one — But smile upon, Lord, bless my son ! And I have risen and gone my way, And seemed to have forgot; Yet oft my wandering thoughts would stray Back to that hallowed spot; While feelings new and undefined Would crowd upon my laboring mind. days of innocence and peace ! O ill exchanged for manhood's years ! When mirth that sprang from youthful bliss, Is drowned beneath misfortune's tears. My heart has since been sadly worn. While wave on wave has o'er it borne ; And feelings once all fresh and gi'een. Are now as though they ne'er had been. And Hope, that bright and buoyant thing. E'en hope has lent despair its wing, And sits despoiled within my breast, A timid, torturing, trembling guest ! 1 dare not look upon the past, I care not for the future cast. Yet o'er this darkness of the soul There comes one cheering beam. Pure, warm, and bright, of rapture full As angel visits seem — A mother's love, a mother's care. My aching heart, there's comfort there ! It is as if a lovely rose Should bloom amid the icy waste ; For while the heart's life-streams are froze. Its fragrance o'er it still is cast. Weary and worn, my bed I've shai'ed With sickness and with pain, Nor one, of all who saw me, cared If e'er I rose again. Heedless and quick, they passed along. With noisy mirth and ribald song, And not a hand outstretched to give A cordial that should bid me live. And woman, too, that nurse of ease, Made up of love and sympathies,