The Step Mother

Well I recall my Father’s wife, The day he brought her home. His children looked for years of strife, And troubles sure to come— Ungraciously we welcomed her, A thing to scorn and blame; And swore we never would confer On her, a Mother’s name I see her yet—a girl in years, With eyes so blue and mild; She greeted us with smiles and tears, How sweetly too she smiled— She bent to kiss my sullen brow, With woman’s gentle grace; And laid her tiny hand of snow On my averted face— “Henry—is this your son? She said— “Dear boy—he now is mine— What not one kiss?—” I shook my head, “I am no son of thine!—” She sighed—and from her dimpled cheek The rosy colour fled; She turned away and did not speak, My thoughts were with the dead— There leaped from out my Father’s eyes A jet of swarthy fire; That flashed on me in fierce surprise— I fled before his ire I heard her gentle voice entreat— “Forgiveness for her sake”— Which added swiftness to my feet, A sad and strange mistake— A year had scarcely rolled away When by that hated bride; I loved to linger half the day, In very joy and pride; Her voice was music to mine ear, So soft its accent fell; “Dear Mother now”—and oh, how dear No words of mine can tell— She was so gentle, fair and kind, So pure in soul and free from art; That woman with her noble mind, Subdued my rebel heart— I just had learned to know her worth, My Father’s second choice to bless; When God removed her from the earth, And plunged us all in deep distress— Hot fever smote with burning blight Stretchd on a restless bed of pain; I moaning lay from morn till night With aching limbs and throbbing brain— Four weary weeks beside my bed, She sat within a darkened room; Untiring held my aching head, Nor heeded silence—cold and gloom— And when my courage quite gave way, And fainter grew my struggling breath; She taught my stricken soul to pray And calmly meet approaching death— “Fear not God’s angel, sent by Him, The weary spirit to release; Before the mortal eyes grow dim, Floats down the white winged dove of peace”— There came a change—but fingers small, No longer smoothed my matted hair; She sprang not to my feeble call, Nor helped to lift me to my chair— And I arose as from the dead, A life for her dear life was given; The angel who had watched my bed Had vanished into Heaven!—