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BLUE GRASS'BALLADS 29
MY MOTHER'S PORTRAIT.
I have come to the home of my childhood;
Come back from the toil and the strife Of the roaring world back to the wildwood
And rest in the evening of life. I came through the forest and farmland,
And up thro' the roses, along By the banks of the lake of this charmland,
And heard the free meadow-lark's song.
The lion-head, dull brazen knocker
Is yet on the door of the hall; Inside is the old-fashioned rocker,
The dearest old chair of them all. I sit in its arms, that invite me,
And gaze on a face that is fair; A face that smiles sweetly and brightly,
And lovingly welcomes me there.
Oh, dark are the curls that are falling
About the fair shoulders and face, And soft are the eyes that seem calling
Her wandering boy to his place In the arms that so tenderly held him,
In infancy's innocent days; Dear white arms, that never repelled him,
Tho' ever so wayward his ways.