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!—