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And yet, when once I heard another

Mention that dear oft-thought of word, And tell of kindness from a Mother,

I wept with anguish whilst I heard. And sure such tears may be forgiven,

For ye who've mothers cannot know How deeply is the bosom riven

With keen though unavailing woe : Oh! ye who feel the fond caress, Weep for the lonely Motherless.

She loved the garden's cooling shade,

She loved its bright and fragrant flowers; She plucked the leaves by blight decayed,

And led the tendrils round her bowers. But oh, the first bright rose that bloomed

This Spring was fated soon to die; 'Twas with her own dear form entombed,

Though it no more could glad her eye. I placed it near her cold pale browWhere is its blushing beauty now?

My memory clings to every word

She uttered with her dying voice; Had I her few last accents heard,

How would my mourning breast rejoice. Oh ! had I seen her parting smile,

That smile which chased away regret, 'Twould oft my saddest hours beguile;

Deep in my memory's tablet set, When thoughts of gloom approach 'twould bless With joy the weeping Motherless.

With joy-for such a smile as thine,

My Mother was a happy token (Which gladdened other hearts with mine)

That when life's feeble chain was broken, Thy spirit would ascend to heaven,

It seemed as though already there Oh 'twas a blissful earnest given

To banish from each heart despair, For when such pleasures waited thee, How could we mourn thy destiny?

I did not wish thee back again,

For others, not for thee I wept:
How many links were burst in twain

The instant that thy spirit slept
In death's embrace and as I knelt

Beside thy bed and watched thy brow,
Cold, and yet colder grow, and felt

The clammy hand which touched me now,
Welcome no more my fond caress,
Then, then, I felt I'm Motherless.

I wept not for myself alone,

No, there were others o'er her bending
With hearts as loving as mine own,

Hearts like mine own with anguish rending :-
Two tender sisters bended near-

A brother gazed with wild fixed eye-
A Father, on whose cheek the tear

Betokened grief's intensity.
But Oh! since these are left to bless,
Grateful would be the Motherless.


The above lines were written by a beloved Sister of the Author's, a little more than two years before her own death.


H. G. Collins, Paternoster Row, London,

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