Pray, may I ask you, worthy lad,
Whose smile no care can smother,
Though busy life
throbs round about,
Have you
written home to mother?
You are fast forgetting, aren't you, quite,
How fast
the weeks went flying;
And that a little blotted sheet
Unanswered
still is lying?
Don't you remember how she stood,
With
wistful glance at parting?
Don't you remember how the tears
Were in her
soft eyes starting?
Have you forgotten how her arm
Stole round
you to caress you?
Have you forgotten those low words:
"Good-by,
my son; God bless you?"
Oh! do not wrong her patient love;
Save God's,
there is no other
So faithful through all mists of sin;
Fear not to
write to mother.
Tell her how hard it is to walk
As walked
the Master, lowly;
Tell her how hard it is to keep
A man's
life pure and holy.
Tell her to keep the lamp of prayer,
A light, a
beacon burning;
Whose beams shall reach you far away,
Shall lure
your soul returning.
Tell her you love her dearly still,
For fear
some sad tomorrow
Shall bear away the listening soul
And leave
you lost in sorrow.
And then. through bitter, falling tears,
And sighs
you may not smother,
You will remember when too late
You did not
write to mother.
Jane
Ronalson, in Banner of Gold.
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