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 predominantly by American authors. 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’s Grave
THE Trembling dew-drops fall
Upon the shutting flowers;- like souls at rest
The stars shine gloriously,- and all
Save me are blest.
Mother,- I love thy grave!
The violet, with its blossoms blue and mild,
Waves o’er thy head,- when shall it wave
Above thy child?
‘T is a sweet flower; yet must
Its bright leaves to the coming tempest bow:
Dear mother,-‘t is thine emblem,- dust
Is on thy brow.
And I could love to die,-
To leave untasted life’s dark, bitter streams,-
By thee, as erst in childhood, lie,
And share thy dreams.
And must I linger here,
To stain the plumage of my sinless years,
And mourn the hopes to childhood dear,
With bitter tears?
Ay ; I must linger here,
A lonely branch upon a blasted tree;
Whose last frail leaf, untimely sere,
Went down with thee.
Oft, from life’s withered bower,
In still communion with the past, I turn,
And muse on thee, the only flower
In memory’s urn.
And when the Evening pale
Bows like a mourner on the dim, blue wave,
I stray to hear the night-winds wail
Around thy grave.
Where is thy spirit flown ?
I gaze above,- thy look is imaged there,
I listen, and they gentle tone
Is on the air.
Oh, come,- whilst here I press
My brow upon they grave,-and, in those mild
And thrilling tone soft tenderness,
Bless, bless thy child !
Yes, bless thy weeping child,
And o’er tine urn,- religion’s holiest shrine,-
Oh, give his spirit undefiled
To blend with thine.