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How much I might have soothed her, had I shared Her patient vigils! Many a weary night Had she bent lonely o'er my father's couch, And now it was too late for me to aid. I wept in agony; I called the saints To witness to the depth of my despair; I vowed wild penances; my grief, Still selfish, half forgot my mother's woe. Yet now not all in vain for me her meek And beautiful example; I was touched By the calm sweetness of humility, Though sorrowing, resigned: yet in my heart There was a struggle; pride forbade to change, And bade me straight resume the veil and vow; But still, the image of my mother, left To solitude and solitary tears, Softened me with reproachful tenderness; I longed to throw me at her feet, and say, Mother, dear mother, take your child again! One evening—'twas the first we bent our way To that ancestral chapel where the dead Of all our race reposed,—how many tears Had fallen upon those cold and quiet stones! The tablets to the memories of the tomb Were mostly worn with time; but one was there Fresh—'twas the bitter work of yesterday! There knelt my mother, but in prayer, not tears; And pale, as with some sad yet solemn thought,