The daily crescent. [volume] ([New Orleans, La.]) 1848-1851, 1851-05-05
gt)s Dailg Crescfnl.
OFFICIAL JOURNAL
Of the C0uneH Of the Second Mmm'c'pot'ty
Published Every Day-tSunday ExceptedV
BY j, II. MADDOX T. CO.
nprrcp Nh Sr CHARLES STREET.
MY MUTHER.....By GEORGE ID. PRENTICE.

My mother, It's a long And weary time
Since Iat looked upon thy sad, sweet face.
Aud listened 10 the gentle spr tones
OF Thy dear voice OF music. was then
A chi d. a brighl-haired child The fearful thought
That ,hou vast passing 81 I from the earIh away.
Was my young lies first SORROW Through the long
And solemn watches of that awful night
Kind friends. who dearly loved u.s. gathered round
Thy dying cOnch and In my agony,
My childish agony, shrieked TO them
TO save thee. mother, but with streaming tears;
And IN the tones of holy sympathy
They told me thou wouldst die.
OH then bowed
My head to God whose worship thy dear lips
Had taught me, and to Him. with bur,ng heart.
l prayed tn he would spare thee. And, as there
| k cit. holy calm. as if from Heaven,
Game stealog o'er my spr t, and a voice.
A. o,,sd gfie a,a melody f0% some saS ,sat hou
Mus, leave me, that Thy home was in the sky, ,.,,
Bnt hat thou sill wOuldst love and guard tiny chid
And hover round him on thy angels wings
In all his wanderiDgs here.
My mother then
rhs ans o hy s sar s 1 hung
ATouId thy pillow, but saw them not.
Whl lamentations and deep sobs were breathed
From. hearts of anguish, but heard them not.
A man Of God poured forth his soul in prayer
For thy souls welfare, bnt heard HIM not.
! saw h1t thy wan cheeks ,hy pared lips.
Thy hafelo eyes so meek and calm beneath
Their blue vened lids, thy bright dishevelled locks
Thy, pald brow. damp with the dews OF death,
And the faint heavlng of thy breast, that oft
L. happy hours had plllowed my young head
To sweet and gentle sumber. and heard
But the FAINT struggle Of thy failing breath,
Thy sufi ing sghs, and the high, holy words
That seemed 10 fall liks dew drops on my soul
From out The blessed skies. All suddenly
Thy blue eyes opened. and moment looked
Upon thy child with one fixed, burning gaze,
In which the deep and hoarded love OF years
Was all concentrated; convulslve thrill
Shot through the fibres OF thy wasted frame;
And dealh there-ay, thou mine and deaths.
A nd then my tear again rushed wildly forh,
Bn' lish from heaven broke through them with soft
Pflsmatc glory. as eazed
And saw thee mounting, like new made star.
Far up thy pathway in the heavens.
Long years, my dear lost mother. have gone by ~
,e slnee that wild hour. NY manhood and ny youth
l. fading like vision. for my years
Far far outnumber thine upon the earth,
This dark, cold exile of the gentle heart
From the bright home to which it longs to fly,
AMI be at rest forever have seen
Much, much OF JOY aud sorrow, have felt
Liie's storms and sunshine, but ne have known
such rsptuIe5 as my iu heart shared with thee
in ehidn. od's fairy wears. Now, time more
ScatteTs fresh roses round my fee', his hand
Lets fall upon my path bnt pae, torn flowers,
Dead bio SONS, that The genial dews OF eve,
Tine IN. rnng sun lght and the noontlde ram
an neer revive again. Tor they are dust
Ay dust and ashes.
Even thine image now,
The image of thy lovely form. that shone
The starlight of my cbidh4od, Sc ms to fade
From memory's vision. IT'S as some pale tint
Upon The twilight wave, broken iimpse
o. something besutiiu and dearly loved
ln taI gone yeas. a dim and tender dream,
That, Ike faint bow on Il dHTkened sky,
Lies my clouded brain. But. OH thy voice,
Us tones can never perish N my soul;
IL fls'ts me among The sirfe o m7n
In the dark city soit1de. II comes,
Amid the silence of The midnight hour.
Upon my listening spirit like strain
OF fairy o'ef the And oft.
When at the eventlde, amid hush
Deep "a the awfu stiffness of dream,
stray a. lonely through the 'eat ss woods
And gaze upon the moon that seems to mourn
Her lonely 10 in heaven, OF on he trees.
That look like lrownng Titans in the dim
And doubtful light, that uniorgOtten voice
Swels on my hRe The low, mouufui tone
lmJflsOned n the shell, or The sound,
The melancholy sound, of dying gales
Painting ia of tree tops.
Yes,
My dear mother, thong mountains hi lis and streams
Divide me from thy gave, where so oft
In childhood laid my bosom on the turf
That covered thine, though the drear winter. storms
Long long have er these their spotess shoud,
Ana night her pal , and though thine imsge sweet
The dear picture cherished through my life.
Grows dim and DINNER N my brain, thy voice,
l. ever my and my heart,
To teach me love and genteness and truth.
And warn me irt m the pers that surround
The paths OF pilgrims DER the desert earth.