THOU art in the grave, my mother,
And the pale stars shine above thee;
And there are tears, sad tears, my mother,
In the eyes of those that love thee.
It seems but yesterday we stood
Beside thy coffin lid,
And looked upon thy loving eyes,
Beneath their curtains hid.
It seems but yesterday we heard
Thine accents soft and mild;
Thy low-toned voice, breathing for us
Those gentle words, " My child."
We felt the atmosphere of love,
A mother's presence brings,
And safe, as if an angel form
Had wrapped us with his wings.
It seems but yesterday, and yet the turf
1s green with springtide rain;
And o'er thy last low place of rest,
The autumn winds have swept again.
We miss thee at all times, my mother;
In our hours of pain and woe,
There is no heart as true as thine,
On which our tears may flow.
We miss thy kind and sunny smile,
In hours of joyous mirth,
And our souls grow sorrowful, to think
That thou art in the earth.
Ah no; 'tis there the shrine reposes,
Where beamed affection's light;
Such love as thine, dear mother,
Could ne'er know death or night.
And still we must believe thou livest,
And lookest on us in love,
And hope to see thee yet, dear mother,
In thy blessed home above.
And oft, when purer thoughts recall us
To the spirit's life within,
We will believe 'tis thee who lurest us
From the wiles of death and sin.