MY MOTHER.

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I am lucky enough to have in my personal library a book entitled ‘The Mourner’s Friend or Sighs of Sympathy For Those Who Sorrow’. It is a collection of prose and verse compiled to give comfort to the grieving. Edited by J.B. Syme, published in 1852 by S.A. Howland in Worcester, Mass, USA; its contents are by American and European authors and some surprising famous names. My copy of the book has some water damage, ageing paper, and precarious binding, so before it deteriorates my project to preserve the words of the authors will find its way here on the MOLAM blog. 

MY MOTHER.

I THINK of thee, my mother, in my sad and lonely hours,
And the thought of thee comes o’er me, as the breath of
summer flowers.
Like the haze upon the ocean, the zephyr on the lea,
As the fragrant air of evening, is the thought of thee to
me.

I dream I hear thy voice, mother, and see thy gentle
smile,
It cheers me in my waking hours, and keeps my lips from
Guile ;
For oft when sin had lured me erring feet astray,
I’ve thought I heard thee, pointing thy child the better
way.

But many a tear has passed, mother, since, numbered with
the dead,
They placed thy lovely form, mother, within earth’s clay-
cold bed.
And many a change has come upon thy little ones, since
there
They bowed in speechless agony, and breathed their
orphan prayer.

I miss thee more each year, mother; I miss thee more
to-night,
As thoughts of thee rush o’er my soul, with vivid mem-
ory’s might;
The death-bed and the mourning friends, the last farewell
and kiss,
Are present, as if scarce an hour had passed since that and
this.

A child may soon forget her grief; the very stroke whose
power
Has robbed her of some priceless gem, is fleeting as the
hour.
Oft in thy room, my merry feet have sought some place
to hide,
Nor thought, amid my childish glee, ‘t was there my
mother died.

In death, thy child was placed within thine aged mother’s
arms,
For sure thou wast that she would keep thy darling from
all harms ;
And faithfully she cherished her, that nature good and
mild,
for the love she bore thee, mother, was lavished on thy
child.

But soon she passed away, mother; God claimed her as
his own,
‘Twas meet that she should pass to him, yet it left us sad
and lone.
And when they all were weeping, they little daughter wept,
But it all seemed strange to me, mother; I thought she
only slept.

She slept the sleep of death, mother; and they laid her in
her grave,
And the long grass grows about it, and the wild flowers
gently wave
O’er the head of the loved sleeper, whose spirit is at rest,
In the bosom of her Saviour, in the mansions of the blessed.

Victorian carved Whitby jet mourning brooch for a lost mother.

Victorian carved Whitby jet mourning brooch for a lost mother.

http://www.rubylane.com/item/596915-PT00222/Victorian-Whitby-Jet-Mourning-brooch

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