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! --