How well do I remember, the grass-plat that you made; And taught me, at the sunset, by your knees, to kneel, and pray. Almost threescore years, my Mother, have glided by, since then; THE ALL SAINTS FLOWERS, With the Autumn leaves, from the Altar of the Chapel of St. Barnabas, were laid, by the Priest, after the service on his grand-mother's grave. SWEET flowers upon my mother's grave, For ye were always her delight, No roses ever bloomed like hers; And pansy, jasmine, mignionette, She treads a fairer garden now; The Paradise of God: And, walks, with reverent step, and slow, Reclines, beside the crystal streams, On banks of asphodel; And, with the throng of saints, delights, The Saviour's love, to tell. Sweet flowers, to which, the Altar, first, Its consecration, lent; By filial hands, in grateful love, So beautifully blent; Ye mind me of my mother's care, And, on my children, shed the grace, Sweet mother, these Autumnal leaves, Tell how, through long and lingering years, And, then, they tell, of that bright time, And heaven's own beauty all, be thine— ALL SAINTS DAY, 1858. TO MARGARET HARRISON DOANE, BAPTIZED ST. MICHAEL AND ALL ANGELS, MDCCCLVIII. "Are they not all ministering spirits, sent forth to minister to them which shall be heirs of salvation? " MARGARET, Sweetest-that means, Pearl- In the pure, baptismal wave, Sin and death have found a grave; Through the blood of Him, who died: Christ, for sinners, crucified. Sweetest Margaret, darling girl, Margaret, darling, sweetest girl, Be a pearl, in holiness; RIVERSIDE, September 29, 1858. THE FIRST CHRISTMAS, WITHOUT MY MOTHER. "One who mourneth for his mother." SWEET Mother, eight and fifty years, Thy Christmas blessings crowned my brow; Thy seat is vacant, by my side; And Christmas comes, without thee, now. A shadow creeps, across my hearth; The cypress twines the holly-bough; Along the line of threescore years, In gifts and prayers, like tracks in snow, I trace thy ever-living love: But Christmas comes, without thee, now. And yet, sweet Mother, though the thought Will choke and tear, my bursting breast; And tears o'ercast this joyous day; I would not call thec, from thy rest. Safe in the Paradise of God, Thy home is with the holy dead; Where Christmas boughs are ever green; And the Christ-feast is always spread. CHRISTMAS, 1858. END OF VOLUME I. |