A MOTHER'S GRAVE.

THE pastoral vale that gave us birth,

Where all our infant joys were given, Appears the loveliest spot on earth,

The holiest place of all but heaven. But all in vain its streamlets flow,

And all in vain its wild flowers wave, When anguished hearts are doom'd to know That it contains a mother's grave.

Ah! mother is a word endeared

To all that bear the human name; And blest are those that can be heard,

When they in gladness breathe the same; But woe to us no more that hear

The answer that we fondly crave, When lone and lorn we shed the tear Of sorrow o'er a mother's grave.

A mother's grave, amid the earth Array'd in flowers of summer dye, Is like the moon- cloud that comes forth To darken all the radiant sky; For all the joys that life possest,

Our drooping hearts to soothe and save, Seem buried with the tender breast

That moulders in a mother's grave.