Part 8 — MY MOTHER.

yes, in whose welling depths would I With wonder ofttimes gaze, And gazing smile, I scarce knew why, In those long-vanished days; Hand, that of old my pillow smoothed When fever burnt my brow, And all my infant sorrows soothed With love—where are ye now? Hushed is the voice whose accents soft Would cradle me to sleep; The eyes that lighted up so oft No longer laugh—nor weep; The hand, before whose touch so deft Sickness and care would flee, Is gone, and naught, alas! is left Save memory to me. G. K. M.