Peter John Allan

(1825-1848 / Canada)

The Mother's Grave - Poem by Peter John Allan

I KNEW a little maiden,
Than falling snows more fair,
Her laughing eye was azure,
And golden was her hair.

Her voice was sweetest music,
For all she said was kind.
I met her in the meadows,
Where flow'rs she went to find.

I ask'd her why she pull'd them--
She bade me come and see;
She led me to the graveyard,
And show'd a grave to me.

'My mother's home is here, Sir,
And ev'ry morn and night
I come and spread her threshold
With flow'rets sweet and bright.

And though I never see her,
I know that she is here,
And, oh! I am so happy,
When with my mother dear!'

I heard the little maiden
Her simple feelings tell,
And on the narrow tombstone
The tears of pity fell.

I helped to strew the flow'rets,
And went upon my way
In mingled joy and sadness,
Not sorrowful, nor gay.

But oh! my heart grew heavy
When tidings reach'd my ear,
That she, poor little maiden,
Had joined her mother dear.

She culled the fairest flow'rets
To deck her mother's bed,
And now, the brightest blossom,
That little maid, is dead.

But in a blissful Paradise,
'Mid ever-blooming bowers,
The mother and the daughter
Now gather fairer flowers.

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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, September 7, 2010



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