Page:The Atlantic Monthly Volume 1.djvu/604

596 Feebler than when the western hill
 * Faded away with its sunset gold.

Mother, your voice seemed dark and chill,
 * And your words made my young heart very cold.

You talked of fame,—but my thoughts would stray
 * To the brook that laughed across the lane;

And of hopes for me,—but your hand's light play
 * On my brow was ice to my shrinking brain;

And you called me your son, your only son,—
 * But I felt your eye on my tortured heart

To and fro, like a spider, run,
 * On a quivering web;—'twas a cruel art!

But crueller, crueller far, the art
 * Of the low, quick laugh that Memory hears!

Mother, I lay my head on your heart;
 * Has it throbbed even once these fifty years?

Throbbed even once, by some strange heat thawed?
 * It would then have warmed to her, poor thing,

Who echoed your laugh with a cry!—O God,
 * When in my soul will it cease to ring?

Starlike her eyes were,—but yours were blind;
 * Sweet her red lips,—but yours were curled;

Pure her young heart,—but yours,—ah, you find
 * This, mother, is not the only world!

She came,—bright gleam of the dawning day;
 * She went,—pale dream of the winding-sheet.

Mother, they come to me and say
 * Your headstone will almost touch her feet!

You are walking now in a strange, dim land:
 * Tell me, has pride gone with you there?

Does a frail white form before you stand,
 * And tremble to earth, beneath your stare?

No, no!—she is strong in her pureness now,
 * And Love to Power no more defers.

I fear the roses will never grow
 * On your lonely grave as they do on hers!

But now from those lips one last, sad touch,—
 * Kiss it is not, and has never been;

In my boyhood's sleep I dreamed of such,
 * And shuddered, they were so cold and thin!

There,—now cover the cold, white face,
 * Whiter and colder than statue stone!

Mother, you have a resting-place;
 * But I am weary, and all alone!