In many a village
churchyard's simple grave,
Where all unmarked the cypress-branches wave;
In many a vault where Death could only claim
The brief inscription of a woman's name;
Of different ranks, and different degrees,
From daily labour to a life of ease,
(From the rich wife who through the weary day
Wept in her jewels, grief's unceasing prey,
To the poor soul who trudged o'er marsh and moor,
And with her baby begged from door to door, - )
Lie hearts, which, ere they found that last release,
Had lost all memory of the blessing "Peace;"
Hearts, whose long struggle through unpitied years
None saw but Him who marks the mourner's tears;
The obscurely noble! who evaded not
The woe which He had willed should be their lot,
But nerved themselves to bear!
Of such art thou,
My Mother! With thy calm and holy brow,
And high devoted heart, which suffered still
Unmurmuring, through each degree of ill.
And, because Fate hath willed that mine should be
A Poet's soul (at least in my degree), -
And that my verse would faintly shadow forth
What I have seen of pure unselfish worth, -
Therefore I speak of Thee; that those who read
That trust in woman, which is still my creed,
Thy early-widowed image may recall
And greet thy nature as the type of all!
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