It lingers on the murm'ring forest trees,
⁠With rise and swell,
And leaves its quiv'ring sighs upon the breeze,
⁠That last farewell!

Across the greensward where the daisies raise
⁠Their starry eyes,
And gold and purple in the sunset blaze
⁠All silent lies,

The tender cadence floats on unseen wing
⁠With mournful spell,
And evermore a thousand echoes ring
⁠Thy last farewell!

Ah! never more the dewy grass will bend
⁠Beneath thy feet,
Nor golden morning with thy tresses blend
⁠In mingling sweet.

And never will the leafy hollows part
⁠Their whisp'ring boughs
To welcome thee when day's bright beams depart,
⁠And evening glows.

No longer will the wooded echoes wake
⁠To hear again
Thy voice, which ringing through the glades did break
⁠The wild bird's strain.

And other feet will press the wavy grass
⁠Where sunshine glows,
And other forms along the greenwood pass,
⁠Crowned with wild rose.

And other voices on the western gale
⁠Will softly play,
Along the silent hill, and up the vale,
⁠While far away.

Thou wilt be wandering in distant lands,
⁠And years will roll,
While dimly, it may be, this fair time stands
⁠On memory's scroll;

And greener paths stretch out before thy view,
⁠And shadows fair,
In robes all radiant with the rainbow hue,
⁠Sail through the air.

Yet evermore these winsome scenes to me
⁠Of sadness tell,
And waving trees and flowers still echo silently
⁠Thy last farewell!

Only a name; but a mother's hand
Writes not in perishing faithless sand:
Back from the vault of long-buried years,
Rise memories far too deep for tears.

Only a name; but 'tis writ in gold,
For the hand that fashioned the word is cold:
Spell-bound on the writing the eyes will fall,
As the Persian gazed on the warning wall.

Yet the gaze shall leave nothing of doubt or dread,
It appeals to the heart with a voice from the dead,
And the dear loved characters stand to prove
A truth never doubted, a mother's love.

Such love as she might to a creature of earth,
She gave to her child when she gave him birth;
And, perchance, from the bright spirit-world her eye
Still marks how he moulds his destiny.

Yea, hushes her harp and with bated breath
Prays while he wavers 'twixt life and death;
And if tears from the earth could dim angels' eyes,
Hers are his griefs with his victories.

True woman, gentle and yet strong
To strive with misery and wrong, —
Thy life was like a rhythmic song
⁠'Mid aimless voices.

The poet whose fine ear has caught
The music with which life is fraught,
Through all discordant deed and thought,
⁠Is loved and honored.

He does but listen, and translate
For us who stand outside the gate
The harmonies for which we wait,
⁠And yet discern not.

But thou, with patient, loving care,
Didst add a lost note here and there
To the world's symphony, and dare
⁠To make it sweeter.

His the ecstatic rapture, thine
The dull routine of toil divine,
Where sympathy and skill combine
⁠In lowly labor.

We, who have not yet learned to play
The tune God sets us day by day,
Look up with wondering eyes, and say,
⁠"What was thy secret?"