Here is a lovely old poem I found in a book called Heart Throbs: The Old Scrapbook, published in 1905 by National Magazine. My mother was herself an ardent scrapbooker; in bulging looseleaf binders, she collected hundreds of poems, proverbs and essays that appealed to her for one reason or another. And so it's no surprise that she was also the owner of Heart Throbs. Perhaps your mother, or grandmother, or great-grandmother, owned this precious book, too.
Penned sometime after the turn of the last century, the introduction to this poem tells us that it's been around for at least a couple hundred years: "Many will be glad to see reprinted the following poem, which has been a classic for a century. No scrapbook (if such things exist nowadays) is complete without it.--Editor"
Heart Throbs provided no attribution, most likely because its author had been long forgotten. Maybe someday we will meet her in heaven, so we can thank her for the smile she has brought to hearts over the centuries, and even today. And maybe we'll meet her dear mother as well.
My Mother
Who fed me from her gentle breast
And hushed me in her arms to rest,
And on my cheek sweet kisses prest?
My mother.
When sleep forsook my open eye,
Who was it sung sweet lullaby
And rocked me that I should not cry?
My mother.
Who sat and watched my infant head
When sleeping in my cradle bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed?
My mother.
When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye
And wept, for fear that I should die?
My mother.
Who ran to help me when I fell
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the part to make it well?
My mother.
Who taught my infant lips to pray,
To love God's holy word and day,
And walk in wisdom's pleasant way?
My mother.
And can I ever cease to be
Affectionate and kind to thee
Who wast so very kind to me,--
My mother.
Oh no, the thought I cannot bear;
And if God please my life to spare
I hope I shall reward thy care,
My mother.
When thou art feeble, old and gray,
My healthy arm shall be thy stay,
And I will soothe thy pains away,
My mother.
And when I see thee hang thy head,
'Twill be my turn to watch thy bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed,--
My mother.
Penned sometime after the turn of the last century, the introduction to this poem tells us that it's been around for at least a couple hundred years: "Many will be glad to see reprinted the following poem, which has been a classic for a century. No scrapbook (if such things exist nowadays) is complete without it.--Editor"
Heart Throbs provided no attribution, most likely because its author had been long forgotten. Maybe someday we will meet her in heaven, so we can thank her for the smile she has brought to hearts over the centuries, and even today. And maybe we'll meet her dear mother as well.
My Mother
Who fed me from her gentle breast
And hushed me in her arms to rest,
And on my cheek sweet kisses prest?
My mother.
When sleep forsook my open eye,
Who was it sung sweet lullaby
And rocked me that I should not cry?
My mother.
Who sat and watched my infant head
When sleeping in my cradle bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed?
My mother.
When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye
And wept, for fear that I should die?
My mother.
Who ran to help me when I fell
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the part to make it well?
My mother.
Who taught my infant lips to pray,
To love God's holy word and day,
And walk in wisdom's pleasant way?
My mother.
And can I ever cease to be
Affectionate and kind to thee
Who wast so very kind to me,--
My mother.
Oh no, the thought I cannot bear;
And if God please my life to spare
I hope I shall reward thy care,
My mother.
When thou art feeble, old and gray,
My healthy arm shall be thy stay,
And I will soothe thy pains away,
My mother.
And when I see thee hang thy head,
'Twill be my turn to watch thy bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed,--
My mother.
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