Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/317

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TO MY MOTHER.
299
  Why should they grieve
  On Monday eve,
  Though on Monday morn,
  Ah! fate forlorn!
A fair young girl gave up her breath,
          Frozen to death?

To My Mother.

Said to have been written by a prisoner in the Ohio Penitentiary.

I've wandered far from thee, mother,
 Far from my happy home;
I've left the land that gave me birth,
 In other climes to roam;
And time since then has rolled its years,
 And marked them on my brow;
Yet I have often thought of thee—
 I'm thinking of thee now.

I'm thinking on the day, mother,
 When at my tender side,
You watched the dawning of my youth,
 And kissed me in your pride;
Then brightly was my heart lit up
 With hopes of future joy,
While your bright fancy honours wove
 To deck your darling boy.

I'm thinking of the day, mother,
 When with an anxious care,
You lifted up your heart to heaven—
 Your hope, your trust was there.
Fond memory brings your parting word,
 While tears rolled down your cheek;
The long, last loving look told more
 Than even words could speak.

I'm far away from thee, mother,
 No friend is near me now,
To soothe me with a tender word,
 Or cool my burning brow.
The dearest ties affection wove,
 Are all now torn from me;
They left me when the trouble came—
 They did not love like thee.

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