Thou hearest footsteps passing by the door,
Oft hast thou heard thy mother's footsteps there;
But ah! she comes, unhappy boy, no more
To say "Good night" or hear thy evening prayer.
Weep on: there's none to wipe away thy tears,
There's none on earth thy mother's place to fill;
The night seems dark, but when the morn appears
Darkness and gloom will be around thee still.
For thou hast lost what time can ne'er restore,
What other friends, though kind, can never be;
She had bright visions of a better shore
But asked to live—it was alone for thee.
Kneel, wretched orphan, kneel beside thy bed;
Thy voice is choked, thy sobs have louder grown;
No mother's hand is lying on thy head,
No mother's heart is lifted with thy own.
But thou canst pray, and on the Saviour's breast,
Which feels for every grief and every care,
Pillow thy head and sweetly sink to rest,
A more than mother will protect thee there.
TO A MOTHER ON THE DEATH OF HER CHILD.
Mother, thy loved one slumbers now
In deep, unbroken rest;
But slumbers not with smiling brow
Upon thy tender breast.
Oh, no! for Death with cruel dart,
Unheeding anguish wild,
Has rudely torn thy yearning heart,
And borne away thy child.
Thy home is drear at break of day,
And drear at set of sun;
For, lo! the grave enwraps the clay
Of thy departed one.
And vainly does thy spirit sigh,
With yearnings deep and wild,
To clasp once more within thy arms
Thy dear, thy darling child.
Cold Death has snatched thy lovely flower;
But, lo! the day draws near,
When even Death shall lose his power,
And thy sweet child appear
All glorious with immortal life,
In Eden's garden fair.
Oh, mother, mother! would'st thou meet
Thy dearly loved one there?
Oh, would'st thou join the blood-washed throng
On that immortal shore?
Oh, would'st thou swell the Conqueror's song
And greet thy child once more?
Then turn to Him who died for thee
A death of woe and pain;
And at the resurrection morn
Embrace thy child again!