Classic Poem

My mother's voice! I hear it now,
I feel her hand upon my brow,
As when, in heart-felt joy,
She raised her evening hymn of praise,
And called down blessings on the days
Of her loved boy.

My mother's voice! I hear it now,
Her hand is on my burning brow,
As in that early hour;
When fever throbbed through all my veins,
And that fond hand first soothed my pains,
With healing power.

My mother's voice! It sounds as when
She read to me of holy men,
The Patriarchs of old;
And gazing downward on my face,
She seemed each infant thought to trace
My young eyes told.

It comes, when thoughts unhallowed throng,
Woven in sweet deceptive song,
And whispers round my heart;
As when, at eve, it rose on high;
I hear, and think that she is nigh,
And they depart.

Though round my heart all, all beside,
The voice of Friendship, Love had died;
That voice would linger there;
As when, soft pillowed on her breast,
Its tones first lulled my infant rest,
Or rose in prayer.