Poems (Freston)/The Hebrew Mother

by Elizabeth Heléne Freston

THE HEBREW MOTHER

TO R.B.

Thou art dead, my mother, they tell me,—dead,
And thy peaceful form on its bier is laid;
And the brow I kiss in my boundless woe,
Is as cold as stone 'neath its crown of snow.
But now as I bend o'er thee, mother dear,
I know that thy spirit is hovering near,—
Near in my sorrow as oft in my joy,
To comfort and bless me,—thy lonely "boy."

The years slip away in this quiet room,
And are wafted off on the flower's perfume.
And I am no longer the man of to-day,
Whose temple-locks Time has dusted with gray,
But a little boy at my mother's knee,—
The young merry mother who once was thee;
Who cradled me safe in her arm's warm fold,
And sprinkled the world with her fairy gold.

So rich in sweet kisses and wisdom's store!
And the wondrous gifts of her fairy lore!
What matter that often our feet went bare!
What matter that oft there was scanty fare!
With that dear hand holding the rudder straight,
Faith sailed life's bark, and we laughed at Fate.
Oh! I did not know, till the years were sped,
How hard was the task, dear, to keep us fed!

Nor how bruised by labor that hand was oft,
That had seemed to our tender needs so soft.
Nor how much of sacrifice, work and pain,
Fill the life of the mother that thou hast been.
Oh! Memory comes, with her velvet tread,
And laying soft hands on my bending head,
She draws aside this dark curtain of woe,
To show the sweet pictures of long ago.

Nay, my mother dear, though for thee the bell
Is tolling its message of sad farewell,
Thou art still alive in the beating heart
Of thy loved one, reft, and shall ne'er depart.
For of all the gifts with which God has blessed
His children, a brave, true mother is best;
And of all the mothers I ever knew,
To me thou wert bravest, to me most true.

Many loves have come, as the years slipped by,
With jest and laughter and sometimes a sigh,
But what heart e'er thrilled at a kiss of mine,
As the touch of thy first-born son thrilled thine!
Ah, those memories sweet have the undertone
Of a sorrow's cry, and a spirit's moan!
For though in my heart thou shalt ever be,
To-morrow no mother will wait for me,

To hear all the news of the day's refrain,
To counsel, and comfort and save from pain;
To grieve in my grief, and to joy in my joy,
For years counted not, I was still thy "boy."
Age had long given his halo of snow,
And thy face was lined and thy step was slow,
But thy heart was young, with the spirit's youth,
And thy furrowed cheek was still bright with truth.

And if each kind deed that thy life has given,
Had plucked a star from the vault of heaven,
To illume thy soul on its homeward way,
'Twould be bright indeed, with each silvery ray.
For none came in sorrow or none in need,
Thou hast failed to comfort, or failed to feed;
And the poor shall bless when they hear thy name,
Though it ne'er shall shine in the halls of fame,

For of all good gifts with which God has blessed
His children, a good, true woman is best;
And a better woman, nor one more true
Than thou wert, my mother, I never knew.
Thou hast entered at last the wide domain,
Where the riddle of life is now made plain.
Thou wert ever true to thy people's creed,
And wert never deaf to thy people's need.

The God of the Christian! the God of the Jew!
Has He told thee the True faith is just to be true?
True to thine own creed,—whate'er it may be,—
True to thy people, in bondage or free;
True to thy God and the gifts He bestowed;—
Love lights the faithful along Death's dim road.
Thy tasks are accomplished,—thy life's work all done,
Thy calm smile now tells me thy rest is begun.

No more of the fret, the fume and the tears,
That crowded thy life in its earlier years.
No more of the pleasures, the hopes and the joys,
And the dreams that have filled thy dear heart for thy "boys!"
But no heaven shall tempt thee, dear mother, to
Beyond call of their voices in sorrow and woe.
To-morrow thy form shall be taken away
And midst flowers, tears and prayers, shall be laid in the clay.

So to-night I shall tender the heart's sad caress,
On the lips that but parted thy loved ones to bless.
Farewell to thee, mother! dear comrade and friend!
Farewell till I find thee again at life's end.
For of all the dear mothers that ever I knew,
To me thou wert bravest, to me the most true.