I NEVER call that gentle name, My mother! but I am again E'en as a child; the very same That prattled at thy knee; and fain Would I forget, in momentary joy, That I no more can be thy happy boy. I've lived through foreign lands to roam, And gazed on many a classic scene; But oft the thought of that dear home, Which once was ours, would intervene, And bid me close again my languid eye, To think of thee and those sweet days gone by. I've pored o'er many a yellow page Of ancient wisdom, and have won Perchance a scholar's name; yet sage Or poet ne'er have taught thy son Lessons so pure, so fraught with holy truth, As those his mother's faith shed o'er his youth. |