“And why do they go with happy looks Up where the chapel stands, Some with their little shining books And flowers in their hands? “Oh, mother, I wish you would take me there! For often as we go by Their voices come through the happy air As if from the open sky! “Oh, mother, I wish I could join the strain, And learn their beautiful words; I am sure they do not sing for pain No more than the little birds! “You know how once we followed them out To the forest green and gay; How they danced and sang a song about The beautiful flowers of May! “Oh, they seemed like a band of angels, free From hunger, pain and strife; As a lady once told me I should be If I lived on honest life! “Then I wondered if we were to die that night, If we should be angels fair! But, mother, what makes your cheeks so white, Why, why do you shiver and stare? “Oh, mother, mother! you have often said You’d kill me yet in some lonely place If I did not steal—and did not shed More tear-streams down my face! “And when in the prison cell we lay, Because you took the purse, I remember how I heard you say A very dreadful curse! “How then you threatened to take my life Because I lied not more! And I remember still the knife You said you had used before! “I fear you, mother! more and more! You groan and give such fearful starts, Ah, spare me now! and at every door I’ll cry till I break all hearts! “But, mother, see, arise, arise! A carriage comes up the vale; They cannot, I’m sure, refuse our cries, Now that you look so pale!” Thus spake the maid—and the carriage came, And she stood as with hunger wild; While suddenly burst from the coach a dame Crying “_my child! my child!_” The crone half rose from her dying place, With her mouth and eyes all wide! And she knew the injured mother’s face, Then fell on her own and died! PART II. One day in the summer garden fair The mother and daughter strayed; With trembling tongue and timid air Thus spake the little maid. “Oh, must I call you mother, indeed? And are you really so? And may a useless way-side weed In a beautiful garden grow? “Yes, you have told me all the tale, How I was stolen away, And how you grew all thin and pale, Grieving for many a day! “Day after day my heart repeats The story o’er and o’er! And when you say you love me, it beats As it never did before! “Oh, what are all these flowers that load The bushes with red and white? There are many growing beside the road, But none so large and bright! “Along the fence the alder grows, To shade the dusty way, And by the brook the briar blows Where the cat-bird sings all day!