Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO MY MOTHER, by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS


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TO MY MOTHER, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: If e'er for human bliss or woe
Last Line: The frail mimosa-buds of hope and joy!
Alternate Author Name(s): Browne, Felicia Dorothea
Subject(s): Mothers


IF e'er for human bliss or woe
I feel the sympathetic glow;
If e'er my heart has learn'd to know
The gen'rous wish or prayer;
Who sow'd the germ with tender hand?
Who mark'd its infant leaves expand?
My mother's fostering care.

And if one flower of charms refined
May grace the garden of my mind;
'Twas she who nursed it there:
She loved to cherish and adorn
Each blossom of the soil;
To banish every weed and thorn,
That oft opposed her toil!

And oh! if e'er I sigh'd to claim,
The palm, the living palm of Fame,
The glowing wreath of praise;
If e'er I wish'd the glittering stores,
That Fortune on her fav'rite pours;
'Twas but that wealth and fame, if mine,
Round Thee, with streaming rays might shine,
And gild thy sun-bright days!

Yet not that splendor, pomp or power,
Might then irradiate every hour:
For these, my mother! well I know,
On thee no raptures could bestow;
But could thy bounty, warm and kind,
Be, like thy wishes, unconfined;
And fall as manna from the skies,
And bid a train of blessings rise,
Diffusing joy and peace;
The tear-drop, grateful, pure, and bright,
For thee would beam with softer light,
Than all the diamond's crystal rays,
Than all the emerald's lucid blaze;
And joys of heaven would thrill thy heart,
To bid one bosom-grief depart,
One tear, one sorrow cease!

Then, oh! may Heaven, that loves to bless,
Bestow the power to cheer distress;
Make thee its minister below,
To light the cloudy path of woe;
To visit the deserted cell,
Where indigence is doom'd to dwell;
To raise, when drooping to the earth,
The blossoms of neglected worth;
And round, with liberal hand, dispense
The sunshine of beneficence!

But ah! if Fate should still deny
Delights like these, too rich and high;
If grief and pain thy steps assail,
In life's remote and wintry vale:
Then as the wild AEolian lyre,
Complains with soft entrancing number,
When the lone storm awakes the wire,
And bids enchantment cease to slumber;
So filial love, with soothing voice,
E'en then shall teach thee to rejoice;
E'en then shall sweeter, milder sound,
When sorrow's tempest raves around;
While dark misfortune's gales destroy,
The frail mimosa-buds of hope and joy!





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