Classic Poem

My business brought me in my way
To Burnley back the other day;
And, sitting there in some old hall
Beside the gloomy-window'd wall,
I saw a wither'd woman throwing
Her wrinkled arm up backward, sewing,
Downlooking low, with glass-help'd sight,
To lead her slow-drawn stitches right;
Though never turning ear or eye
To us that happen'd to be nigh:
But when she heard my name, she held
Her hand upon the seam she fell'd,
And, taking off her eyes, made free
To ask who might my mother be?
I told her; and my tongue upstirr'd
Her torpid heart's blood by the word:
And in her lap she lightly laid
Her long-boned arm, from labor stay'd,
And open'd all the hidden store
Of olden joys her mem'ry bore,
And told me of her heart-lov'd home,
And holidays that let her roam,
With my lost mother wand'ring wild
A winning child, with her a child;
Or moving forth, more staid in mood
And mien, in high-soul'd womanhood:
Of wakes, and days that broke to bring
The brisk youths to the maypole ring,
Where folks, now all grown old, were then
But air-light girls, and spry young men:
Of joys the shyfaced maiden shares
With shifting crowds in deaf'ning fairs,
Where, conscious of the growth and grace
That greet her on her glasses face,
She goes, with seemly softness, by,
Look-seeking still, but ever shy:
Of feats that folks did once, but few
Are fit in later times to do:
Of lonesome widows left in woe,
That lost their husbands years ago;
When strong-wav'd streams o'erflow'd their banks,
Or storms o'erthrew the elms' high ranks;
And others that were lost, for lack
Of light the ling'ring moon kept back,
When over darksome eastern skies
No evening star was seen to rise,
And no slow team, in shining train,
Was travelling with Charles's wain;
And tales of bridegrooms, hale and bold,
With burning hearts by death made cold,
Or youth bewilder'd, weeping near
His wax-cold maid upon her bier,
For God she told us takes the best
Betimes to everlasting rest.
And as she follow'd, line by line,
My long-lost mother's face in mine,
She told us what a trusty part
Was taken by her good young heart,
When first her father died, and all
His family but she were small:
And how she met, a thoughtful maid,
Her mother's weary hands with aid,
And did the most she ever might
To make her heavy loss seem light.
And thus the old soul led us on
Through all her heart-dear seasons gone,
With tales of mourning minds of old,
That my poor mother left untold.
For ere we leave the light that show'd
The looks that blest our short abode,
Our burden'd heart is fain to find
That faithful mortals, left behind,
Will hold, with hearts of kindred clay,
The hist'ry of our little day;
And thus the hoary headstone prays
For heedful thought in after days,
And fellow-mortals still hold fast
Their fleeting earth-loves to the last,
And lay upon the last they see
Their love's injunction, " Think of me."
But God knows all the ills forlorn
And overgrieving hearts have borne,
And ne'er o'erlooking, though they lie
In lowly dust, the griefs that try
Them now, will weigh with equal weight
Their woe, and make the crooked straight.