Classic Poem

Think not, dear mother, that the cares,
Or joys, or hopes, that manhood knows,
Have sown my heart with Autumn tares,
Or chilled its fount with Winter snows.
No! green and fresh life's verdure grows
As in my happy, youthful years,
And warm and bright its current flows,
Although its waves are mixed with tears.

I have not, mother—since a child
I loved to look in your soft eyes,
And watch if on my face they smiled,
As smile God's angels from the skies:
Since listening to your mild replies,
Which fell upon my soul like dew,
I deemed your teachings good and wise—
I have not once forgotten you.

But ever, like a holy charm,
Some viewless seraph breathes your name!
It turns away my steps from harm,
It holds me back from sin and shame.
More precious than when first it came
In broken accents from my tongue;
I speak it—and the voice of Fame
No sweeter numbers ever sung.

Oh, could I win the laurel-crown,
By cold Ambition viewed afar
Up the steep summit of Renown;
Or soar in Glory's wingèd ear
To regions that no vapors mar,
But all is brilliant, clear, serene—
Your thought, dear mother, like a star
Would soften and pervade the scene.

Yet better in my lonely hours
Than when bright visions throng my brain,
Love I to cull from Memory's flowers
Some buds whose beauty cannot wane;
They bloom around Time's weary chain,
And childhood's Eden-calm restore:
They bring sweet peace, they banish pain,
And I am by your side once more.

Dear mother, keep me in your prayers;
I ask no purer guardian-sprite
To waft me into Heavenly airs:
Cease not at morning, noon or night
To bless, though distant from your sight,
Your longest-loved, your eldest one—
And in a clime of constant light
My mother may regain her son.