“When Marc was sixteen summers old, A tall youth and a strong, Said he, ‘I am a worthless drone, I do my mother wrong-- I’ll hence and win the bread I eat, I’ve burdened you too long!’ “Oh! many tears my mother shed; And earnestly did pray, That he would still abide with us, And be the house’s stay; And be like morning to her eyes, As he had been alway. “But Marc he had a steadfast will, A purpose fixed and good, And calmly still and manfully Her prayers he long withstood; Until at length she gave consent, Less willing than subdued. “Twas on a shining morn in June, He rose up to depart; I dared not to my mother show The sadness of my heart; We said farewell, and yet farewell. As if we could not part. “There seemed a gloom within the house, Although the bright sun shone; There was a want within our hearts-- For he, the dearest one, Had said farewell that morn of June, And from our sight was gone. “At length most doleful tidings came, Sad tidings of dismay; The plague was in the distant town, And hundreds died each day; We thought, in truth, poor Marc would die, ’Mid strangers far away. “Weeks passed, and months, and not a word Came from him to dispel The almost certainty of death Which o’er our spirits fell; My mother drooped from fear, which grew Each day more terrible. “At length she said, ‘I’ll see my son In life if yet he be, Or else the turf that covers him!’ When sank she on her knee, And clasped her hands in silent prayer And wept most piteously. “She went into the distant town, Still asking everywhere For tidings of her long lost son:-- In vain she made her prayer; All were so full of woe themselves, No pity had they to spare. “To hear her tell that tale would move The sternest heart to bleed; She was a stranger in that place, Yet none of her took heed; And broken-hearted she came back, A bowed and bruised reed. “I marked her cheek yet paler grow, More sunken yet her eye; And to my soul assurance came That she was near to die, And hourly was my earnest prayer Put up for her on high. “Oh, what a woe seemed then to us, The friendless orphan’s fate! I dared not picture to my mind, How drear, how desolate-- But, like a frightened thing, my heart Shrunk from a pang so great! “We rarely left my mother’s side, ’Twas joy to touch her hand, And with unwearying, patient love, Beside her couch to stand, To wait on her, and every wish Unspoke to understand.