Freston
109
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."
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.
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.
