Upon the low-thatched roof, the rain,
      With ceaseless patter, falls;
    My choicest treasures bear its stain—­
      Mould gathers on the walls—­Would Heaven
      ’Twere only on the walls!

    Sweet Mother!  I am here alone,
      In sorrow and in pain;
    The sunshine from my heart has flown,
      It feels the driving rain—­Ah, me! 
      The chill, and mould, and rain.

    Four laggard months have wheeled their round
      Since love upon it smiled;
    And everything of earth has frowned
      On thy poor, stricken child—­sweet friend,
      Thy weary, suffering child.

    I’d watched my loved one, night and day. 
      Scarce breathing when he slept;
    And as my hopes were swept away,
      I’d on his bosom wept—­O God! 
      How had I prayed and wept!

    They bore him from me to the ship,
      As bearers bear the dead;
    I kissed his speechless, quivering lip,
      And left him on his bed—­Alas! 
      It seemed a coffin-bed!

    When from my gentle sister’s tomb,
      In all our grief, we came,
    Rememberest thou her vacant room! 
      Well, his was just the same, that day. 
      The very, very same.

    Then, mother, little Charley came—­
      Our beautiful fair boy,
    With my own father’s cherished name—­
      But oh, he brought no joy!—­My child
      Brought mourning, and no joy.

    His little grave I cannot see,
      Though weary months have sped
    Since pitying lips bent over me,
      And whispered, “He is dead!”—­Alas
      ’Tis dreadful to be dead!

    I do not mean for one like me,
     —­So weary, worn, and weak,—­
    Death’s shadowy paleness seems to be
      Even now, upon my cheek—­his seal
      On form, and brow and cheek.

    But for a bright-winged bird like him,
      To hush his joyous song,
    And, prisoned in a coffin dim,
      Join Death’s pale, phantom throng—­My boy
      To join that grisly throng!

    Oh, Mother, I can scarcely bear
      To think of this to-day! 
    It was so exquisitely fair,
     —­That little form of clay—­my heart
      Still lingers by his clay.

    And when for one loved far, far more,
      Come thickly gathering tears;
    My star of faith is clouded o’er,
      I sink beneath my fears—­sweet friend,
      My heavy weight of fears.

    Oh, should he not return to me,
      Drear, drear must be life’s night! 
    And, mother, I can almost see
      Even now the gathering blight—­my soul
      Faints, stricken by the blight.

    Oh, but to feel thy fond arms twine
      Around me, once again! 
    It almost seems those lips of thine
      Might kiss away the pain—­might soothe
      This dull, cold, heavy pain.