Page:Poems Cook.djvu/98

I MISS THEE, MY MOTHER.

I miss thee, my Mother, thy image is still
 The deepest impress'd on my heart;
And the tablet so faithful, in death must be chill,
 Ere a line of that image depart.
Thou wert torn from my side when I treasured thee most;
 When my reason could measure thy worth;
When I knew but too well that the idol I'd lost
 Could be never replaced upon earth.

I miss thee, my Mother, in circles of joy,
 Where I've mingled with rapturous zest;
For how slight is the touch that will serve to destroy
 All the fairy web spun in my breast.
Some melody sweet may be floating around—
 'Tis a ballad I learnt at thy knee;
Some strain may be play'd, and I shrink from the sound;
 For my fingers oft woke it for thee.

I miss thee, my Mother, when young health has fled,
 And I sink in the languor of pain:
Where, where is the arm that once pillow'd my head,
 And the ear that once heard me complain?
Other hands may support, gentle accents may fall—
 For the fond and the true are yet mine:
I've a blessing for each; I am grateful to all—
 But whose care can be soothing as thine?

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