'Tis eve, and dusky twilight falls;
Here is a home that men call poor,
A glimmer lights its humble walls,
A strain comes through its half-closed door;
Sweet as from Sappho's soul might spring,
Song, none but mother's voice may sing.
Look through the casement dim and old,
A shadow fronts the ingle's glow,
Whose arms a tiny form enfold,
Sits gently rocking to and fro;
With cadence measured to its swing,
Comes song that mothers only sing.
Her tears fall on the baby's brow,
Too full her heart with very joy,
Hark! with her voice is blending now,
The sleepy murmurs of her boy;
Faint--fainter--hushed and slumbering,
By song but mother's lips may sing.
Why bends, O friend, thy brow with thought,
At glimpse of Paradise so fair?
Doth memory fill thy heart unsought
With echo, whose 'divine despair'
Brings sadness past imagining?
Song that thy mother used to sing!
O soft sweet voice, O simple strain,
Where love ne'er bids the measure cease,
Until the charm of its refrain,
Lulls the complaining soul to peace;
Come back again on angel wing,
O song my mother used to sing!
It may not be, earth hath one heaven,
Our childhood's days, a mother's care,
When life is o'er, will other given
Restore to us these joys so rare?
Yes, and its pure delight shall bring,
The songs our mothers used to sing.
[Illustration: MONUMENT TO HENRY STAFFORD, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM, K
G. BRITFORD CHURCH, NEAR SALISBURY.]