Written at My Mother's Grave

Written at My Mother's Grave

The trembling dew-drops fall

Upon the shutting flowers; like souls at rest,

The stars shine gloriously; and all

Save me, are blest.

Mother, I love thy grave,

The violet, with its blossoms blue and mild,

Waves o'er thy head; when shall it wave

Above thy child?

Tis a sweet flower, yet must

Its bright leaves to the coming tempest bow;

Dear mother, 'tis thine emblem, dust

Is on thy brow.

And I could love to die;

And leave untasted life's dark, bitter streams—

By thee, as erst in childhood, lie,

And share thy dreams.

And I must linger here,

To stain the plumage of my sinless years,

And mourn the hope to childhood dear,

With bitter tears.

Aye, I must linger here,

A lonely branch upon a wither'd tree,

Whose last frail leaf, untimely sere,

Went down with thee.

Oft, from life's wither'd bower,

In still communion with the past I turn,

And muse on thee, the only flower

In memory's urn.

And when the evening pale

Bows like a mourner, on the dim, blue wave,

I stray to hear the night-winds wail

Around thy grave.

Where hast thy spirit flown?

I gazed above—thy look is imaged there;

I listen—and thy gentle tone

Is on the air.

O come while here I press

My brow upon thy grave; and in those mild

And thrilling tones of tenderness,

Bless, bless thy child!

Yes, bless your weeping child;

And o'er thine urn—religion's holiest shrine—

O give his spirit undefiled,

To blend with thine.

Geo. D. Prentice

1:39, p. 1

4.14.1860