The garden that at morn was gay,
And the sequestered bower,
Seemed to have wept their bloom away,
All in one little hour;
We heard a voice upon the breeze
Sigh mournfully, mournfully through the trees,
And the voice was this,
As it rose and fell
On the balmy air,—
"Farewell, farewell!"
Years, weary years have passed us o’er
Since that unhappy morn,
And in our arms we clasp once more
With rapture our first-born.
And thankful for our Father’s care
Gratefully, gratefully raise the prayer,
That when life is o’er
Our anthems may swell
Where lips breathe no more—
Farewell, farewell!
No mother! well, the burning tears may flow
And bathe thy pillow, hapless orphan,
now;
No mother’s tender voice may soothe thy woe,
No mother’s kiss is on thy aching
brow.
Thou hearest footsteps passing by the door,
Oft hast thou heard thy mother’s
footsteps there;
But ah! she comes, unhappy boy, no more
To say “Good night” or hear
thy evening prayer.
Weep on: there’s none to wipe away thy
tears,
There’s none on earth thy mother’s
place to fill;
The night seems dark, but when the morn appears
Darkness and gloom will be around thee
still.
For thou hast lost what time can ne’er restore,
What other friends, though kind, can never
be;
She had bright visions of a better shore
But asked to live—it was alone
for thee.
Kneel, wretched orphan, kneel beside thy bed;
Thy voice is choked, thy sobs have louder
grown;
No mother’s hand is lying on thy head,
No mother’s heart is lifted with
thy own.
But thou canst pray, and on the Saviour’s breast,
Which feels for every grief and every
care,
Pillow thy head and sweetly sink to rest,
A more than mother will protect
thee there.
Mother, thy loved one slumbers now
In deep, unbroken rest;
But slumbers not with smiling brow
Upon thy tender breast.
Oh, no! for Death with cruel dart,
Unheeding anguish wild,
Has rudely torn thy yearning heart,
And borne away thy child.
Thy home is drear at break of day,
And drear at set of sun;
For, lo! the grave enwraps the clay
Of thy departed one.
And vainly does thy spirit sigh,
With yearnings deep and wild,
To clasp once more within thy arms
Thy dear, thy darling child.
Cold Death has snatched thy lovely flower;
But, lo! the day draws near,
When even Death shall lose his power,
And thy sweet child appear
All glorious with immortal life,
In Eden’s garden fair.
Oh, mother, mother! would’st thou meet
Thy dearly loved one there?
