This is man's love! what marvel? you ne'er made
Your breast the pillow of his infancy;
While to the fulness of your heart's glad heavings
His fair cheek rose and fell; and his bright hair
Waved softly to your breath! You ne'er kept watch
Beside him, till the last pale star had set,
And morn, all dazzling, as in triumph broke
On your
dim
weary eye; not yours the face
Which early faded through fond care for him,
Hung o'er his sleep, and duly, as heaven's light,
Was there to greet his wakening! You ne'er smoothed
His couch, ne'er sung him to his rosy rest,
Caught his least whisper, when his voice from yours
Had learned soft utterance; pressed your lip to his,
When fever parched it; hushed his wayward cries,
With patient, vigilant, never-wearied love!
No! these are woman's tasks! in these her youth,
And bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart,
Steal from her all unmarked!
MOTHER'S Love-how sweet the name!
What is a Mother's Love?-
A noble, pure, and tender flame,
Enkindled from above,
To bless a heart of earthly mould;
The warmest Love that can grow cold;
This is a Mother's Love.
To bring a helpless babe to light,
Then while it lies forlorn,
To gaze upon that dearest sight,
And feel herself new-born,
In its existence lose her own,
And live and breathe in it alone;
This is a Mother's Love.
In weakness in her arms to bear;
To cherish on her breast,
Feed it from Love's own fountain there,
And lull it there to rest:
Then while it slumbers watch its breath
As if to guard from instant death;
This is a Mother's Love.
To mark its growth from day to day,
Its opening charms admire,
Catch from its eye the earliest ray
Of intellectual fire;
To smile and listen while it talks,
And lend a finger when it walks;
This is a Mother's Love.
And can a Mother's love grow cold?
Can she forget her boy?
His pleading innocence behold,
Nor weep for grief—for joy?
A Mother may forget her child,
While wolves devour it on the wild;--
Is this a Mother's Love?
Ten thousand voices answer, "No!" Ye clasp your babes and kiss; Your bosoms yearn, your eyes o'erflow; Yet, ah! remember this;— The infant reared alone for earth, May live, may die--to curse his birth;— Is this a Mother's Love?
A parent's heart may prove a snare;
The child she loves so well,
Her hand may lead, with gentlest care,
Down the smooth road to hell;
Nourish its frame-destroy its mind:
Thus do the blind mislead the blind,
Even with a Mother's Love.
Blest infant! whom his mother taught
Early to seek the Lord,
And poured upon his dawning thought
The dayspring of the word;
This was the lesson to her son,
Time is Eternity begun :
Behold that Mother's Love.*
Blest Mother! who, in wisdom's path,
By her own parent trod,
Thus taught her son to flee the wrath,
And know the fear of God:
Ah, youth! like him enjoy your prime,
Begin eternity in time,
Taught by that Mother's Love.
That Mother's Love!-how sweet the name!
What was that Mother's Love?
The noblest, purest, tenderest flame,
That kindles from above,
Within a heart of earthly mould,
As much of heaven as heart can hold,
Nor through eternity grows old?
This was that Mother's love.
NLIKE all other earthly things,
Which ever shift and ever change,
The Love which a fond Mother brings,
Nought earthly can estrange.
Concentrated, and strong, and bright,
A vestal flame it glows
With pure, self-sacrificing light,
Which no cold shadow throws.
* 2 Tim. i. 5, and iii. 14, 15.
All that by mortal can be done
A Mother ventures for her son.
If marked by worth and merit high,
Her bosom beats with ecstasy;
And though he own nor worth nor charm.
To him her faithful heart is warm.
Though wayward passions round him close,
And fame and fortune prove his foes;
Through every change of good and ill
Unchanged a Mother loves him still.
And when those kindred cords are broken
Which twine around the heart;
When friends their farewell word have spoken,
And to the grave depart:
When parents, brothers, husband, die,
And desolation only
At every step meets her dim eye,
Inspiring visions lonely:
Love's last and strongest root below,
Which widowed Mothers only know
Watered by each successive grief,
Puts forth a fresher, greener leaf.
Divided streams unite in one,
And deepen round her only son,
And when her early friends are gone,
She lives and breathes in him alone.
O! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps, Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps. She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies, Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes, And weaves a song of melancholy joy,—
“Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy;
No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine;
No sigh that rends thy father's heart and mine.
Bright as his manly sire, the son shall be
In form and soul; but ah! more blest than he!
Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love, at last,
Shall soothe his aching heart for all the past,—
With many a smile, my solitude repay,
And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away.
And say, when, summoned from the world and thee,
I lay my head beneath the willow tree,
Wilt thou, sweet mourner! at my stone appear.
And soothe my spirit lingering near?
Oh, wilt thou come, at evening hour, to shed
The tears of Memory o'er my narrow bed;
With aching temples on thy hand reclined,
Muse on the last farewell I leave behind,
Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low,
And think on all my love and all my woe?"
So speaks affection, ere the infant eye
Can look, regard, or brighten in reply;
But, when the cherub lip hath learned to claim
A mother's ear by that endearing name,—
Soon as the playful innocent can prove
A tear of pity, or a smile of love,
Or cons his murmuring task beneath her care,
Or lisps, with holy look, his evening prayer,
Or gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear
The mournful ballad warbled in his ear,
How fondly looks admiring Hope the while
At every artless tear, and every smile!
How glows the joyous parent to descry
A guileless bosom true to sympathy!
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