“Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight;
Make me a child again, just for to-night! 
Mother, come back from the far-distant shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep,—­
Rock me to sleep, mother—­rock me to sleep.

“Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years! 
I am so weary of toils and of tears,
Toil without recompense,—­tears all in vain,—­
Take them, and give me my childhood again. 
I have grown weary of dust and decay,
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away,
Weary of sowing for others to reap,—­
Rock me to sleep, mother—­rock me to sleep.

“Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you. 
Two weary summers the grass has grown green,
Blossomed, and faded, our faces between;
Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain,
Long I to-night for your presence again;
Come from the silence so long and so deep,—­
Rock me to sleep, mother—­rock me to sleep.

“Over my heart in days that are flown,
No love like mother-love ever has shone;
No other fondness abides and endures,
Faithful, unselfish, and patient, like yours. 
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain;
Slumber’s soft dews o’er my heavy lids creep,—­
Rock me to sleep, mother—­rock me to sleep.

“Come, let your brown hair, lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again as of old;
Let it fall over my forehead to-night,
Shading my eyes from the moon’s pallid light,
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more
Happily throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly its bright billows sweep,—­
Rock me to sleep, mother—­rock me to sleep.

“Mother, dear mother, the years have been long,
Since last I was hushed by your lullaby song;
Sing then, and unto my soul it shall seem
That the years of my boyhood have been but a dream;
Clasp your lost son in a loving embrace,
Your love-lighted lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to part or to weep,—­
Rock me to sleep, mother—­rock me to sleep.”

On the morning of June the third the sun rose beautifully over the Cumberland Mountains, flooding the valley of the Sequatchie, as we descended into it with lighter hearts than we had felt for many a day.  As we rode down the mountain, my companion recognized the localities in the distance, and described the route which, in so many miles, would bring us to his father’s house.  His side hurt him severely that day, as the hardships of the way had given him a cold, which threatened to inflame and reopen the wound he had received in attempting to escape through the cavalry picket.  He talked much of home, and was sure his mother could cure him.  Poor fellow! he was already beyond his mother’s help, though I did not then suspect it.