Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep; Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep! Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold, Mother, dear mother, the years have been long Rock me to sleep, mother,— rock me to sleep! I MISS THEE, MY MOTHER BY ELIZA COOK I miss thee, my Mother! Thy image is still And the tablet so faithful in death must be chill Ere a line of that image depart. Thou wert torn from my side when I treasured thee most When my reason could measure thy worth; When I knew but too well that the idol I'd lost Could be never replaced upon earth. I miss thee, my Mother, in circles of joy, For how slight is the touch that will serve to destroy All the fairy web spun in my breast! Some melody sweet may be floating around 'Tis a ballad I learned at thy knee; Some strain may be played, and I shrink from the sound, For my fingers oft woke it for thee. I miss thee, my Mother; when young health has fled, And I sink in the languor of pain, Where, where is the arm that once pillowed my head, Other hands may support, gentle accents may fall- I miss thee, my Mother, in summer's fair day, When I hang thy pet linnet's cage high on the spray, There's the bright gravel path where I played by thy side When time had scarce wrinkled thy brow, Where I carefully led thee with worshiping pride I miss thee, my Mother, in winter's long night: It was kind to take that from my eye: I miss thee, my Mother! Oh, when do I not? For when thou wert with me my soul was below, My affections, my thoughts, were all earth-bound; but now They have followed thy spirit to God! ABSENCE BY NATHANIEL P. WILLIS "The heart that we have lain near before our birth, is the only one that cannot forget that it has loved us." PHILIP SLINGSBY. My birthday! O beloved mother! Before I wept upon thy knees- My own I do not care to checkalbeit here alone I weep As if I hung upon thy neck, Four weary years! How looks she now? What trace of time has touched the brow For whom the night seems made to pray- -- I know not if my mother's eyes And tasted of some bitter springs; And many leaves, once fair and gay, From youth's full flower have dropped away But, as these looser leaves depart, The lessened flower gets near the core, The sunshine and the dew by which its bud was nursed. Dear mother! dost thou love me yet? Am I remembered in my home? When those I love for joy are met, Does some one wish that I would come? My heart is full-mine eyes are wet Dear mother! dost thou love thy long-lost wanderer yet? Oh! when the hour to meet again Creeps on and, speeding o'er the sea, My heart takes up its lengthened chain, |