To Mother.
I heard a song last night, mother,
A song you used to sing,
When like a little bird, mother,
With weak and unfledged wing,
I played about your flowing gown
Contented with your smile,
Though all the world should cast a frown
Upon your happy child.
The song I heard last night, mother,
Came floating through the door
As if some angel voice, mother,
Had sung it oft before;
But, O! I missed the patient pause,
The low accustomed tone,
I turned away heart-sick--because
The voice was not your own.
Those dear old songs you used to sing,
That made my heart-beats rhyme,
Have bubbled up from memory’s spring,
Ah! many and many a time.
When thirsty or with thought oppressed,
When tired of the sunshine,
When longing for the shade and rest,
I hear those songs of thine.
They’re just as low and sweet to-day
As when I heard them first;
And though I am so far away,
The field glass though reversed,
Holds still a picture that I love,
Three faces--four with mine--
Another looks from heaven above,
A little face--like thine.
The Broken Heart.