Don’T Cry, My Mother!

’Twas on a tranquil summer’s morn, My gentle boy and I, Fatigued, had laid us down, to rest From sporting joyously; He’d close his laughing violet eyes, Then slyly peep at me; And shake his curly auburn locks, And laugh right merrily.

A welcome letter came from home, That home was distant far; But though I left it long ago, ’Twas still my polar star. O, home--sweet home! in joy or woe, My heart will turn to thee, Awake--asleep--my thoughts are thine, Home of my infancy!

Twas there my childhood’s years flew by In heartfelt happiness, ’Twas there I learn’d what magic power The darkest hour could bless-- ’Twas there I learn’d what love could do, Love first, my God! to thee! And there I gave my heart to him Whose love was bliss to me.

But now sad news had come from home, That one I loved was dead, And, weeping sorely, on the couch I bowed my mournful head. “Don’t cry, my Mother!” soft and sad, My little darling said; But, ah! I only wept the more-- His cousin Charles was dead!

“Don’t cry, my mother!” once again, In trembling tones I heard, And, struggling with my grief, I strove To speak one soothing word. My little Charley’s eyes were dim, And one unconscious tear Roll’d slowly down his velvet cheek; My grief he could not bear.

So far his little life had been One smiling April day, And I was wrong to cloud it o’er; But grief must have its way; I kiss’d away the stranger tears, And smiled upon my boy, And then his little angel face Was lighted up with joy.

And soon he slept--then, O, how sweet The luxury of grief! To let the pent up feelings flow, And find in tears relief! And, ere he woke, a solemn calm Sweet o’er my spirit stole, I had applied for Gilead’s balm-- It came, and soothed my soul.

But now, alas! I weep again! And weep more burning tears; And weep alone! no lovely child To soothe my grief appears; No husband near--how sad! how strange! He who was all to me-- Who soothed me--cheer’d me--loved me so-- O, this is agony!

My God! my God! I weep for them! Yet ne’er will I repine; O, help me, Father! those I loved, In silence to resign! Shall I, from thine all-bounteous hand, Receive so sweet a boon, And, when thou call’st them to thyself, Not give thee back thine own?

Hark! hark! that little cherub voice, Sounds gently in mine ear, In tones of angel harmony, “Don’t cry, my mother dear! O, wipe away those flowing tears, If we could sorrow here, ’Twould be to see thee mourn for us; Don’t cry, my mother dear!”

NEW ORLEANS, October 25, 1839.