I, to the Church--yard went to see
The spot where my poor Mother's laid,
When quick the tears gush'd from my eye;--
I hung my head like one afraid;
And thought of all the anxious days,
And restless nights for me she bore;
A puny thing, ill worth her care,
Then did I sigh, and weep the more.

'Twas sorrow's luxury to see
The sod that wrapp'd a parent's clay,
And on that narrow spot of earth,
O, I could weep the hours away!
I tore a nettle from her tomb!
Why should a rank weed flourish there?
O'er one who virtue made her guide,
Pale prey to sickness, want, and care.

Oft do I mark the humble shed,
Where blythe was spent life's op'ning day;
And oft, at eve, I trace the fields
Where she would fondly with me stray;
And oft I seek the place of graves,
Where one I water with a tear;
And still her spirit seems to say,
Prepare in time to rest thee here!

And oft I think of that sad hour,
When she was to the dust consign'd;
Soon eager beat my guileless heart
To seek the world, to know mankind:
The world I saw, mankind I loved,
And heedless sail'd down pleasure's stream:
Now, busy mem'ry loud proclaims,
Life's morning's all a fev'rish dream!

Near to that little mound of earth,
Fain would I rest my wearied head,
For I'm a joyless pilgrim here,
And none would seek my narrow bed.
Reflection wounds me in the past;
To--morrow brings not hope to me;
O, sainted form! O, parent blest!
Would I had bow'd to earth with thee!

I think of eve's long wish'd--for hours,
When joyous home from school I flew;
And with affection's dearest kiss,
My arms around her neck I threw.
Tho' luxury our board ne'er grac'd,
'Midst poverty content was giv'n,
And all that wealth or wisdom boast,
Are nought without this boon of Heav'n!

Still could I find a haven of rest
On her pure bosom, fondly lov'd;
And all hope's wanton dreams of bliss,
Were, with a smile, by her approv'd:
Her lessons led to virtue's path;
Her num'rous sorrows were made mine;
And ever present is her look,
When now I welcome life's decline.

Long ere ten times I'd seen blythe spring
Spread o'er the earth her fost'ring dews,
Cold were the lips I weeping kiss'd,
And I was told heart--rending news.
Whate'er my fate, whate'er my care,
While in this frame life's pulse shall beat,
All worldly ills I'll patient bear,
And fondly hope with her to meet.