Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/525

 1850-60.1 ALFRED BURNETT. 509 All seasons and ages belong unto Death — Youth, manhood, nor age will he spare ! All battered and worn is the sexton's spade. And soon 'twill be thrown aside ; It hath lasted well, and many a grave Hath it shaped both deep and wide ! And many a tale could that old spade tell — Tales of the churcli-yard drear, Of the silent step, and the doleful knell, Of the coffin, shroud, and bier ! DEAR MOTHER. WAS IT RIGHT? To the grove beyond the meadow Where the stream goes rippling by. In the twihght, yester even, Wandered young Glennhold and I ; And when the twilight deepened Into the shades of night. Still in the gi'ove we lingered : Dear mother, was it right ? Was it right, my dearest mother, As we wandered thus along, For his arm to be around me ? I'm sure he meant no harm, — And when a flitting cloud, mother. Had hid the moon's pale light, His lips he pressed to mine : Oh, tell me, was it right ? Should I have then repulsed him. When he promised to be true ? In such an hour, dear mother. What should a maiden do ? My heart Avas wildly beating. As if with sore aifright — Yet I felt more joy than sadness : Dear mother, was it right? Was it right that I should tell him I would love him all my life, And both in joy and sorrow Prove a true and loving wife ? And now, dear mother, tell me, And make me happy quite, If I did not yester e'en Act womanlike and right ? ll MY MOTHER. Mother, thy locks are growing gray, Thy form is bent with years. And soon thou'lt bid farewell to earth- Its joys, its hopes, its fears. Yet time hath gently dealt with thee ; Adown life's billowy sea Thy bark hath sailed without a wave Of dark adversity ! Thou who first taught my infant lips To syllable thy name. To thee I dedicate this lay ; Thou who art still the same — The same kind mother of my youth And manhood's wayward years ; Ah ! mother dear, I fear I've caused Thee many bitter tears. I know I can not e'er repay The wealth of love that's thine — A mother's love cannot be told In feeble verse of mine. Yet wnll I strive to be as thou Thyself wouldst have me be, And know in doing thus I'll prove Sincerest love to thee. And shouldst thou be the first to pass The shadowy vale of death, Thy blessing, mother, be it mine E'en with thy latest breath. Then shall I better be prepared To battle on through life, And meet thee in the spirit-land, Afar from earthly strife.