The southern press., 1851-07-23
My Mother.
Ny GEORGE d. PRENTICE.


My mother, TN long and weary time
Since List looked upon thy sad, sweet face,
And listened to the gentle spirit-tones
OF thy dear voice of music. | was then
A child bright haired child. The fearful thought
That thou vast passing from the earth away,
Was my young life's sorrow. Through the long
And solemn watches of that awful night
Kind friends who dearly loved US, gathered round
Thy dying couch, and in my agony,
My chiidish agony. shr-ked to-them --s....
To save thee, mother, but with streaming tears;
And in the tones of holy sympathy ,
They tod me thou wouldst die.
Oh! then bowed
Ny head to God, whose worship thy dear lips
Has taught me, and 10 Him, with bursting heart,
prayed that he would spare thee. And, as there
knet, holy calm, as If from Heaven,
Came stealing o 'er my spirit, and u voice,
As 'twere a melody from some star,
F'loated into my soul. IL said that thou
Must leave me, that thy home was in the sky,
But that thou still wouldst love ana guard thy child
And hover round him on thy angels wings
In all his wanderings here
My mother, then
/ rose 10 more than childhood's strength and
watched
The fading of thy life. Dear friends still hung
Around thy pillow, but saw them not.
Wild lamentations and deep sobs were breathed
From hearts Of anguish; but heard them not.
man ofGod poured forth his soul in prayer
For thy souls welfare, but heard him not
| saw but thy wan cheeks, thy parted lips,
Thy hall-closed eyes, so meek and calm beneath
Their bue-veined lids, thy bright dshevelled
locks,
Thy palIid brow damp with the dews Of death,
And the faint heaving Of thy breast that Oft
In happy hours had pillowed my young head
To sweet and gent slumber and heard.
But the faint struggle OF thy failing breath
Thy siifing sighs, and the high, holy words
That seemed to fall like dew drops on nv soul
From out the blessed skies. All suddenly
Thy blue eyes opended, and a moment looked
Upon thy child with one fixed, burning gaze,
In which the deep and boarded love Of years
Was all concentrated a convusive thrill
Shot through the fbres Of thy wasted frame
And death was there-ay, thou vast mine and
deaths
And then my tears agar rushed wildly forth,
But light from Heaven broke through them with n
soft
Prismatic glory, as gazed,
And saw thee mounting, like a new made star,
Far up thy pathway in the heavens.
Long years.
Long years, my dear lost mother. have gone bv
Since that wild hour. My manhood and my youth
Have passed away and now my childhood s prime
Us fading like vision, for my years
Far, far outnumber thine upon the earth,
This dark, cold exile Of the gentle hearl
From the bright home TO which il longs TO 1y.
And be at rest forever. | have seen
Much, much Of Joy and sorrow, have felt
Life storms aud sunshine, but ne 'er have known
Such raptures as my full heart shared with thee
In cbildhood's fairy years Now, time no more
Scatters fresh roses round my feet, his hand
Lats fall upon my path but pale, torn flowers,
Dead blossoms, that the genial dews of eve,
The morning sunlight and noontide rain
Can ne'er revive again, for they are dust
Ay, dust and ashes.
Even thine image now,
The image Of thy lovely form, that shone
The starlight ofmy childhood, seems to fade
From memory's vision. lis ss some pale tint
Upon the twilight wave, a broken glimpse
Ofsomethng beautiful and dearly loved
In far gone years, dim and tender dream,
That like faint bow on n derkened sky,
Lies on my clouded brain. But oh thy voice.
in tones can never perish in my soul
IL visits me among the strife ormen
In the dark city's solitude. IL comes.
Amid the silence Of the midnight hour,
Upon my listening spirit like strain
W fairy music Q 'er the sea. And Oft,
When at the eventide amid hush
Deep as the awful stiffness Of dream,
! stray all lonely through the leaaess woods,
And gaze upon the moon, that seems to mourn
Her lonely lot in Heaven, or on the trees,
That look like frowning Titians ia the dim
And doubtful light, that unforgotien voice
Swells on my ear like the low, mournful tone
Imprisoned IN the sea shell, or the sound,
The melancholy sound ofdyng gales
Painting on the far of tree tops