MY MOTHER.
yes, in whose welling depths would I
With wonder ofttimes gaze,
And gazing smile, I scarce knew why,
In those long-vanished days;
Hand, that of old my pillow smoothed
When fever burnt my brow,
And all my infant sorrows soothed
With love—where are ye now?
Hushed is the voice whose accents soft
Would cradle me to sleep;
The eyes that lighted up so oft
No longer laugh—nor weep;
The hand, before whose touch so deft
Sickness and care would flee,
Is gone, and naught, alas! is left
Save memory to me.
G. K. M.
“ALL MY INFANT SORROWS SOOTHED.”