-f*??: ■ , Class _H-UZLi Book JA Copyright N^. i^'lf COPmiGHT DEPOSIT. / prex^enfeiL to Si)LJ "I7d% \ J t tIS mrrrtmrTTTTnriyt^ ytrtg — Frontispiece. A SONG FROM THE HEART. A Tribbte or F12OWERS TO THE CONTAINING Thoughts on Mother's Love, Mother's Death, Mother's Grave, Mother's Home Beyond, Echoes From the Heart's Dearest Memories AND The Father's Side. ILLUSTRATED. By John McCoy, M. D. REVISED AND ENLARGED By D. H. Wever. CHICAGO: UNION PUBLISHING HOUSE, 1898. Y of OoVl':^ ^ ^"^xttfy U 4-*^ t T^ 1 i I R Copyrighted, 1882, 1884 and 1890. COPYRIGHT, 1897. By M. B. downer. PREFACE. A FTER mother's death, years ago, we searched ^ ^ diligently for something to read — some book on the subjects presented here. We failed to find what we wished, and were thus led to gathering the " flowers of thought " which compose this volume. We find that every man and woman whom the world has called great, and whose words have been saved for their wisdom and goodness, all cherished with the utmost tenderness their memories of Mother, of happy innocent childhood, and of home. Their testimony is always interesting, often very beautiful; and they speak the common sentiment of the human race. The love of home is universal. There is no place like home. The ties of home should be, and usually are, the strongest and most sacred of any on earth. True, in the busy street, young people go rushing on until the work of the day is over, but when night comes on, the heart is apt to wander back to — "The Old Folks at Home." The old house, the familiar walks about the place, the garden paths, the deep, oid-fashioaed well, the barn iii iv PREFACE, and the gentle horse, the orchard, the family room and the aged ones — and especially the mother — are all called up, and the son or daughter is again with the loved ones at home. It is true that many a young man goes to the city and too soon forgets his father and mother, for we own that this is sometimes done; but they do not forget him. The social circle, the ball- room and the theatre occupy his time, and his evenings are spent away from his room. If this book falls into the hands of such a young man, and it will, we hope he may stop and reflect before he leaves his room at night, and write a letter home. WRITE THEM A LETTER TO-NIGHT. " Don't go to the theatre, concert or ball, But stay in your room to-night; Deny yourself to the friends that call, And a good, long letter write — Write to the sad old folks at home— Who sit when day is done, With folded hands and downcast eyes, And think of the absent one. " Don't selfishly scribble, ' Excuse my haste, I've scarcely time to write.' Lest their drooping thoughts go wandering back PREFACE. V To many a by-gone night — When they lost their needed sleep and rest, And every breath was a prayer. That God would leave their delicate babe To their tender love and care. " Don't let them feel that you've no more need Of their love and their counsel wise; For the heart grows strongly sensitive When age has dimmed the eyes — It might be well to let them believe You never forgot them quite; That you deem it a pleasure when far away, Long letters home to write. " Don't think that the young and giddy friends, Who make your pastime gay, Have half the anxious thought for you That the old folks have to-day. The duty of writing do not put off — Let sleep or pleasure wait — Lest the letter for which they have looked and longed, Be a day or an hour too late. " For the sad old folks at home. With locks fast turning white. vi PREFACE. Are longing to hear from the absent one — Write them a letter to-night. " There are no ties so near and dear as the ties of the family circle, the ties of home. More tears fall around the family hearth for the absent ones, the fallen ones, the lost ones, than any place else on earth. " Be it ever so humble, there is no place like home;" and the reason is, we know we are loved and cared for at home. We attended a concert, some years since, given by one of our best living artists. The audience was de- lighted with the excellent music, and at the close of each piece most heartily applauded. The concert was well advanced when the artist came on the stage, and the piano commenced softly to count off the notes of — ** Home, Sweet Home." In a moment the large house roared with applause, and the singer could scarcely proceed. But the song over, the eager audience called the singer back, and applause again shook the house as a welcome to — "The Old Folks at Home." Tears filled the eyes of that vast audience, and many a strong man wept like a child, as his thoughts went back " home again." PREFACE, Vll Parents sometimes think their children do not care for them, do not love them, because they stay long from home, and write but few and short letters ; but such we do not believe to be the case. That young man who had not written home for months, sat by a beautiful young lady whom he had accompanied to the opera, and as " Home, Sweet Home! " floated out over the audience, tears ran down his face. Thoughts of his home and the mother that he loved, came vividly before his mind, and awakened the deep- est emotions. It is a great mistake for a young man not to write often to his mother ; but it is seldom for want of love and respect for her that he neglects to do so. It is care- lessness. The young not only fail in showing consider- ate attention, but they too often do not fully appreciate the self-sacrificing love and benign presence of mother; like the air and the sunlight, she and her tender minis- tries are received and looked upon as a matter of course. And how often will the wealth of her affec- tions not be wholly known or felt till she is at rest in the home of the soul. Then they will regret that they did not write often, and that they staid so much from home. Their thoughtless negligence will cost them viii PREFACE. many a tear. No person who is true to purer impulses will neglect this blest privilege and sacred duty, because the time will come when the consciousness of having done our duty to those who bore and cherished us will be of more worth than fame or gold. This book is sent forth in the hope that it may awaken on the part of the husband and the child a deeper appreciation of her who is the central figure of home ; that it may strengthen the family bonds, mak- ing them more beautiful and tender; that it may encourage charity, and breathe hope for that future where language is music, thought is light, and love is law. It embodies those rare gems of prose and poetry in which are set the most inspiring thoughts of the true and good of all ages. To the mature in years these thoughts will come as sad, sweet melodies, touch- ing the soul with a gentle dew of melancholy, and bringing into view the reflected radiance of a golden dawning. To the young, they will brighten and deepen the pleasures and memories of home, awaken- ing a nobler life and a grander future. J. M. <50NT^NTS. MOTHER'S LOVE. PAGE. A Mother's Lament 27 An Indian Mother's Love 148 A Mother's Heart 33 A Mother's Gift — The Bible 34 A Mother's Love 47 A Mother's Influence 75 A Mother's Thought over a Cradle 55 A Sweet Picture 56 A Mother's Heart 91 A Mother's Love iii A Mother's Farewell to her Daughter 74 A Mother's Treasures 133 A Mother's Work 142 A Mother's Cares 152 A Mother's Faith , 192 A Mother's Hope 194 Birthday Verses 62 Better in the Morning 136 Children , .• 73 Experience 151 Forget-me-not 191 General Garfield's Mother 117 Homeward Bound 66 Home Again 70 Home Influences 175 Home of our Childhood, 216 Her Mother's Ear 127 Home 193 I'm Frightened in the Dark 84 Is It Thou, Mother? 115 Kiss MY Eyelids Down To-Night 116 Light of Home 69 Little Boots 121 ix St CONTENTS. Mother 19 Maternal Love , 22 Mothers 29 Mother's Love 36 Mother's Good-bye „ 38 My Place in Childhood 40 Mother 42 My Mother's Voice 44 Mother's Fingers 45 My Mother's Easy-chair 48 Mother's Bible 50 My Mother 59 Mother's Boys 89 Mother-Love loi Maternal Love 105 My Mother's Song 107 My Darling's Shoes 109 Mother's Way 171 Mother's Wee Man 167 My Old Silver Thimble 125 My Good Old-Fashioned Mother 130 Mother, the Star of my Home 204 Memories of the Old Kitchen , •. 206 Motherhood 211 On the Threshold 201 Pass Under the Rod 81 Papa's Letter 154 Queen of Baby-Land 94 Queen of the World 205 Rock Me to Sleep .• 78 Rich, Though Poor 164 The Old Homestead 21 Tired Mothers 31 The Family Bible „ 37 Treasured Remembrances 52 The Mother to her Child 57 The Mother of Jesus 67 To a Child Embracing its Mother 71 The Childless Mother 82 The Brave at Home 86 The Little Blue Shoes 87 CONTENTS. XI The Baby 102 The Mother's First Grief 103 The Mother Wants Her Boy 123 The Spells OF Home 132 The Mother 141 The Mother's Day-Dream , 145 To My Mother , 158 The Convict 16© The Three Little Chairs 168 The Road is so Lonesome Between 1 79 The Old Song 182 The Sweetest Name 184 Two Graves 173 The Mother's Hope 194 The Old House in the Meadow 197 The Old Homestead 209 Woman 54 Willy's Grave 95 Where's My Baby? 120 We Shall Sleep, but not Forever 186 Woman's Influence, ., 187 MOTHER'S DEATH. A Father to His Motherless Children 236 A Mother's Death 272 At Mother's Grave 294 Baptism of an Infant at Its Mother's Funeral 247 Dead Mother 267 Death Scene 269 Lips I have Kissed 270 Letter from Philip Phillips 219 Lines by Whittier 271 Mother is Dead 222 Motherless 23 1 My Mother's Prayer 233 My Mother's Prayer — Music 218 My Mother's Bible 238 My Mother 257 My Trundle-Bed 258 Mother's Vacant Chair , 262 xii CONTENTS. Mother's Love Cannot Die c , 273 Mother-Love Undying = 278 My Mother 291 Memories of Mother 297 My Motpier's Wheel 298 My Mother Knelt in Prayer 302 One by One , . . 220 On the Receipt of Mother's Picture 241 On a Lock of My Mother's Hair 252 On the Death of a Mother 261 On Dreaming of my Mother 279 Recollections 280 She is Dying 295 The Old Arm-Chair 248 The Dying Mother 250 To Mother 253 The Mother Perishing in a Snow-Storm 265 The Death-Bed 268 The Dying Mother 274 't will all be right in the morning ., 275 To my Dead'Mother 276 The Death of Eve 284 The Old Home without Mother 289 The Pathos of Life , , ,,. 300 MOTHER'S GRAVE. At Mother's Grave ,. . . 317 Alone 321 At the Sepulcher 334 Death and Funeral 341 Hallowed Ground 343 Heart Throbs 344 Low in the Ground 318 My Mother 309 My Mother's Grave , .. .. 312 Meditations „ 315 Meditations at the Grave 326 Mother 331 My Stricken Heart 342 Nsarer Thee ...,, 325 CONTENTS, xiii No Home .>. 354 Over My Mother's Grave , ... 314 Requiescat in Pace 356 She Always Made Home Happy 310 She Sleeps .' 322 Saintly Sympathy 352 The Holy Grave 305 Tribute to a Mother 30S The Farewell to the Dead 350^ Thou Angel Spirit 340 The Repose of the Holy Dead 351 The Voice from Over the River 353 Under the Violets 325 Written at My Mother's Grave.. 319 MOTHER'S HOME BEYOND. Changed Harmonies 390 Crossing Over 392 Hereafter 378 Home is where Mother is , 380 Home and Heaven , , 391 Memories 389 My Mother at the Gate 395 My Mother 398 Our Future Home 362 The Angel of the House 361 The Mountains of Life 377 The Home Over There 379 There is a World Above 384 To My Mother 385 The Spirit Mother,.,. , 403 HEART ECHOES. A Letter to Mother 43c A Mother's Aitvice 433 A Reply to Ingersoll 482 A Vanishing Dream 485 A Name in the Sand 497 Boy Lost 410 XIV CONTENTS. BEYOND 439 Earth's Purest Memories 424 Finishing Life 460 Grandfather's Reverie 491 Home Infi^uence 411 Heaven at Last 456 If and If 459 I Want My Mamma, Too 476 LuDwiG's Love 446 N. for Nannie and B. for Ben 453 Remembering Mother 409 Rock of Ages 441 Remember Me 498 Silent Sounds 417 Seasons of Life 455 Shai.1. We Meet Again 458 The Use of Tears 407 The Road to Wisdom 408 To My Mother 416 Trust 428 The INVISIB1.E CH11.DREN 429 The AI.ABASTER Box 444 The Home-Coming 426 Two Bei.i■ :i ^^ " I feel that in the heavens above, The angels, whispering to one another, Can know, among their burning terms of love, None so devotional as that of * Mother.' " —Foe's « To My Mothv> " ** Maternal love ! thou word that sums all bliss. " —Pcllok, " Mighty is the force of motherhood ! It transforms all things by itfi vital heart; it turns timidity into fierce courage, and dreadless defiance into tremulous submission; it turns thoughtlessness into foresight, and yet stills all- self-denial into calm content." — George Eliot, I^^Mfe^^^— MOTHER! WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR THIS BOOK. Professor David Swing. AS in the blade of grass and in the smallest herb, the first years of our globe gave signs of the coming tree; as in the first drops of rain there was the promise of a coming ocean, as in the little garden of Eden there lay the prophecy of homes and cities and measureless fields; so the earliest instincts and affections of animal life were advance heralds of a profound devotion destined to appear in the form of a mother's love. Each wild beast which to the death would defend its young, each bird that screamed and fluttered when an enemy ap- proached its nest, said in distinct accents that Nature was preparing the way for a sublime sentiment — the attachment of a human mother to her children. It is proof of the defective civilization of the classics that the mother did not hold a high place in the esteem of the great men of that period. It was in a more ad- vanced stage of man that Cowper sang "Oh that those lips had language.** What tears! what night- watching! what solicitude! 19 20 MO THER* S LOVE. what self-denial! what joy! what pure affection are in- cluded in the word " Mother! " She literally dies for her children. To them she gives all her thoughts and powers of mind and body. It is not to be wondered at that when writers, sacred or profane, have desired to convey some adequate notion of the love of God for His universe, they have always asked us to look upon a mother and her child. In that attachment we find all the heights and depths of sentiment, and when human thought has compared God to a loving mother, it can say no more — its richest emblem is then exhausted. Sad thought that even our mother must leave us and be placed under the sod! But dying, she is the best proof of immortality, for her love is too divine to be- come dust. Even among animals, the heart of a mother is a sublime thing. — Dumas. MOTHER'S LOVM. st THE OLD HOMESTEAD. r\ WHETHER the brooks be tinged with flowers. ^ Or whether the dead leaves fall, And whether the air be full of songs, Or never a song at all, And whether the vines of the strawberries, Or frosts through the grasses run, And whether it rain or whether it shines, Is all to me as one. For bright as brightest sunshine The light of memory streams Round the old-fashioned homestead. Where I dreamed my earliest dreams. \ ND say to mothers what a holy charge Is theirs — with what a kingly power their lo\ Might rule the fountains of the new-born mind. DLISSFUL Mary Morning, mother mild, Mindful of naught but peace and of a child. — Sidney Lanier's " Sunrise. '* MATERNAL LOVE. TF there is one mortal feeling free from the impurities of earthly frailty that tells in its slightest breathings of its celestial origin, it is that of a mother's love — a mother's chaste, overwhelming and everlasting love of her children. The name of a mother is our childhood's talisman, our refuge and safeguard in all our mimic misery ; 'tis the first half-formed word that falls from a babbling tongue ; the first idea" that dawns upon the mind ; the first, the fondest and the most lasting tie in which affection can bind the heart of man. It is not a feeling of yesterday or to-day ; it is from the beginning the same and unchangeable ; it owes its being to this world, but is independent and self-exist- ent, enduring while one pulse of life animates the breast that fosters it ; and if there be anything of mortality which survives the grave, surely its best and noble passion will never perish. 22 MO THER 'S LOVE. 23 Oh! it is a pure and holy emanation from Heaven's mercy, implanted in the breast of woman for the dear- est and wisest purposes, to be at once her truest and most sacred pleasure, and the safety and blessing of her offspring. *Tis not selfish passion, depending for its permanency on the reciprocation of its advantages ; but in its sin- cerity it casteth out itself, and when the welfare of that object is at stake, it putteth away fear, and knoweth not weariness. It is not excited by form or feature, but rather, by a happy perversion of perception, im- bues all things with imaginary beauty. It watches over our helpless infancy*with the ceaseless benignity of a guardian angel, anticipates every childish wish, humors every childish fancy, soothes every transient sorrow, sings our sweet lullaby to rest, and cradles us on its warm and throbbing breast, and when pain and sickness prey upon the fragile form, what medicine is there like a mother's kiss, what healing pillow like a mother's bosom! And when launched upon the wide ocean of a tem- pestuous world, what eye gazes on our adventurous voyage with half the eagerness of maternal fondness. 24 MOTHER'S LOVE. amid the sad yet not unpleasing contest of hopes, and fears, and deep anxieties ? When the rugged path of life has been bravely, patiently and nobly trodden — when prosperity has smiled upon us — when virtue has upheld us amid the world's temptations — virtue which she herself first planted in us — and when fame has bound her laurels round us, is there a heart that throbs with a more lively or greater pleasure ? Yet it is not prosperity, with her smile and beauty, that tries the purity and fervor of a mother's love ; it is in the dark and dreary precincts of adversity, amid the cold frowns of an unfeeling world, in poverty and despair, in sickness and in sorrow, that it shines with a brightness beyond mortality, and, stifling the secret of its own bosom, strives but to pour balm and conso- lation on the wounded sufferer ; and the cup of misery, filled to overflowing, serves but to bind them more firmly and dearly to each other, as the storms of winter bid the sheltering ivy twine itself more closely round the withering oak. Absence cannot chill a mother's love, nor can even vice itself destroy a mother's kindness. The lowest MO THER 'S LOVE. 25 degradations of human frailty cannot wholly blot out the remembrance of the first fond yearnings of your affection, or the faint memorial of primeval innocence; nay, it seems as if the very consciousness of the abject state of her erring child more fully developed the mighty force of that mysterious passion, which can forget and forgive all things ; and though the youth of her fairest hopes may be as one cast off from God and man, yet will she not forsake him, but participate in all things save his wickedness! I speak not of a mother's agonies when bending over the bed of death! nor of Rachel weeping for her chil- dren, because they were not! The love of a father may be as deep and sincere, yet it is calmer, and, perhaps, more calculating, and more fully directed in the great periods and ends of life ; it cannot descend to those minutiae of affection, those watchful cares for the minor comforts and gratifica- tions of existence, which a mother, from the finer sen- sibiUties of her nature, can more readily appreciate. The pages of history abound with the records of maternal love in every age and clime, and every rank of life ; but it is a lesson of never-ending presence. 86 MO THER 'S LOVE. which the heart can feel and acknowledge, and needs not example to teach how to venerate. Can there be a being so vile and odious, so dead to nature's impulse, who, in return for constant care, such unvarying kindness, can willingly or heedlessly wound the heart that cherished him, and forsake the lonely one who nursed and sheltered him ; who can madly sever the sweetest bonds of human union, and bring down the gray hairs of his parents with sorrow to the grave ; who can leave them in their old age to solitude and poverty, while he wantons in the pride of unde- served prosperity ? If there be, why let him abjure the name of man and herd with the beasts that perish, or let him feel to distraction that worst of human miseries, " How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is To have a thankless child." — Shakespeare, A habe is a mother's anchor. — Beecher MO THER 'S LOVE, 27 A MOTHER'S LAMENT. T LOVED thee, daughter of my heart ! My child, I loved thee dearly ! And though we only met to part ! How sweetly ! how severely ! Nor life nor death can sever My soul from thine forever. Thy days, my little one, were few An angel's morning visit, That came and vanished with the dew, 'Twas here — 'tis gone — where is it? Yet didst thou leave behind thee A clue for love to find thee. Darling ! my last, my youngest love, The crown of every other ! Though thou art born in heaven above, I am thine only mother ! Nor will affection let me Believe thou canst forget me. 25 MO TRER 'S LO VE, Then — thou in heaven and I on earth — May this our hope delight us. That thou wilt hail my second birth. When death shall reunite us ; When worlds no more can sever Mother and child forever. — Montgomery. A WOMAN'S HEART. God's angels took a little drop of dew Fresh fallen from the heaven's far-off blue. And a white violet, so pure and bright, Shedding its fragrance in the mom's soft hght, And a forget-me-not laid altogether gently out of sight Within the chalice of a lily white. With humbleness and grace they covered it. Made purit)' and sadness near to sit, And added pride to this and fears a few, One wish, but half a hope, and bright tears, too, Courage and sweetness in misfortune's smart. And out of this they molded woman's heart MOTHERS. TlfHAT a power in the very word. Mother! No power can break the spell which a good mother throws around her child. He may wander away from home, and may even seem for a while to forget a mother's prayer and a mother's kiss ; but somewhere and some- how that lovely face and fond caress will flash upon the mind. John Randolph said : " I should have been a French atheist if it had not been for one recollection, and that was that my departed mother used to take my little hand in hers, and cause me, on my knees, to say, 'Our Father which art in heaven.'" No doubt hundreds and thousands of boys have been kept back from ruin by the hallowed influence which a fond and Godly mother had thrown around them in their early childhood. Well do we remember the solemn impression once made upon a boy's mind on accidentally coming near to where his mother was kneel- ing in secret prayer in the evening twilight. As he stood as if chained to the spot, he heard the low, oarn- 29 30 MOTHER'S LOVE, est entreaties which that mother poured out before the mercy seat, that God would bless and save her children. If an angel had been whispering in his ear a message of mercy, sent direct from before the mediatorial throne, he would not have been more fully conscious of the fact that Christ was inviting him to his loving embrace. Richter is quoted as having said: " Unhappy the man whose mother does not make all mothers interest- ing." If the mother be true and pure, and interesting and gentle, she will ever live in the memory of the child as a model of all that is to be desired in the female character. And mothers should never forget that they wield a power which, by the blessing of God, can lead the child to a home in heaven. MOTHER'S LOVE, 31 TIRED MOTHERS. — Mrs. Albert Smith, A LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee^ Your tired knee that has so much to bear — A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly From underneath a thatch of tangled hair ; Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch Of warm, moist fingers holding yours so tight, You do not prize the blessings overmuch — You are most too tired to pray to-night. But it is blessedness! A year ago I did not see it as I do to-day — We are all so dull and thankless, and too slow To catch the sunshine till it slips away; And now it seems surprising strange to me That while I wore the badge of motherhood I did not kiss more oft and tenderly The little child that brought me only good, 32 MO THER 'S LO VE- And if some night when you sit down to rest, You miss the elbow on your tired knee — This restless curly head from off your breast, This lisping tongue that chatters constantly; If from your own the dimple hand had slipped. And ne'er would nestle in your palm again, If the white feet into the grave had tripped — I could not blame you for your heart-ache then. I wonder that some mothers ever fret At their precious darlings clinging to their gown; Or that their foot-prints when the days are wet, Are ever black enough to make them frown; If I could find a little muddy boot. Or cap, or jacket on my chamber floor — If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot. And hear it patter in my house once more; If I could mend a broken cart to-day, lo-morrow make a kite to reach the sky, MO 2 HER 'S LOVE, .33 There is no woman in God's world could say She was more blissfully content than I; But ah! the dainty pillow next my own Is never rumpled by a shining head! My singing birdling from its nest has flown My little boy I used to kiss is — dead. A MOTHER'S HEART. r\ IF there be in retrospection's chain One link that knits us with young dreams agdins One thought so sweet, we scarcely dare to muse On all the hoarded rapture it reviews — Which seems each instant in its backward range, The heart to soften and its ties to chain, And every spring, untouched for years, to move — It is the memory of a mother's love. 34 MOTHER'S LOVE, A MOTHER'S GIFT— THE BIBLE. ■pEMEMBER, love, who gave thee this When other days shall come, When she who had thine earliest kiss Sleeps in her narrow home; Remember 'twas a mother gave This gift to one she'd die to save! That mother sought a pledge of love, The holiest for her son. And from the gifts of God above, She chose a goodly one; She chose for her beloved boy. The source of light and life and joy. She bade him keep the gift, that when The parting hour should come, They might have hope to meet again In an eternal home; She said his faith in this would be Sweet incense to her memory. MO THER 'S LOVE, 35 And should the scoffer in his pride, Laugh that fond faith to scorn, And bid him cast the pledge aside, That he from youth had borne, She bade him pause and ask his breast If she, or he, had loved him best. A parent's blessing on her son Goes with this holy thing ; The love that would retain the one Must to the other cling. Remember 'tis no idle toy : A mother's gift ! remember boy ; 36 MOTHER'S LOVE, MOTHER'S LOVE. —John S. Reid 73 Y her my lisping tongue in prayer Was taught to bless the God of light, Her kindness soothed my childish care, And watched my slumbers during night, poor is the immortal sculptor's art, The painter's pencil, poet's song, Compared to her who moulds the heart With plastic hand while pure and young. A sister's love is warm and kind, A brother's strong as hand of time ; And sweet the love of kindred mind. But, mother, these are not like thine. Dear mother, from thy home above, Still come and bless me with thy love. MOTHER'S LOVE, 37 THE FAMILY BIBLE. TTTHAT household thoughts around thee as their shrine, Cling reverently! of anxious looks beguiled. My mother's eyes upon thy page divine. Each day were bent; — her accents gravely mild, Breathed out thy lore, whilst I, a dreaming child. Wandered on breeze-like fancies oft away. To some lone tuft of gleaming spring-flowers wild, Some fresh discovered nook for woodland play. Some secret nest; — yet would the solemn word At times, with kindlings of young wonder heard. Fall on my waken'd spirit, there to be A seed not lost; — for which in darker years, O book of Heaven! I pour, with grateful tears, Heart blessings on the holy dead and thee! "^Mrs. Hemans, 38 MOTHER'S LOVE, MOTHER'S GOOD-BYE. QIT down by the side of your mother, my boy, You have only a moment I know; But you will stay 'till I give you my parting advice, Tis all that I have to bestow. You leave us to seek for employment, my boy, By the world you have yet to be tried; But in all the temptations and struggles you meet;; May your heart in your Savior confide. Hold fast to the right, hold fast to the right, Wherever your footsteps may roam. Oh, forsake not the way of salvation, my boy,_ That you learned from your mother at home. You'll find in your satchel a Bible, my boy, 'Tis a book of all others the best ; It will teach you to live, and help you to die, And lead to the ff.ates of the blest. MOTHER'S LOVE. 39 I gave you to God, in your cradle, my boy, I have taught you the best that I know; And as long as his mercy permits me to live, I shall never cease praying for you. Your father is coming to bid you good-by, Oh, how lonely and sad we shall be; But when from the scenes of your childhood and youth, You'll think of your father and me. I want you to feel every word I have said. For it comes from the depths of my love; And, my boy, if we never behold you on earth, Will you promise to meet us above! 40 MOTHER'S LOVE, MY PLACE IN CHILDHOOD. — S. Lover. 'T^HERE was a place in childhood, that I remember -'' well, And there a voice of sweetest tone, bright fairy tales did tell. And gentle words, and fond embrace, were given with joy to me. When I was in that happy place upon my mother's knee. When fairy tales were ended, " good-night," she softly said, And kissed and laid me down to sleep upon my tiny bed. And holy words she taught me there; methinks I yet can see Herangel eyes, as close I knelt beside my mother's knee. In the sickness of my childhood, the perils of my prime» The sorrows of my riper years, the cares of every time, I—" CO CD CD pi p (D MO THER 'S LOVE, A\ When doubt and danger weigh me down, then plead- ing all for me, It was a fervent prayer to Heaven that bent my mother's knee. r\ GOD, since ever I could speak, My voice had fallen on faithful ears, Twas " Mother " in my triumph hour. And " Mother " in my time of tears. ^Laura C. Redden ^ in " Dear Mother. n^HE mother, in her office, holds the key "*■ Of the soul; and she it is who stamps the coin Of character, and makes the being who would be a savage, But for her gentle cares, a Christian man. — Old Play. IV TY CHILD is lying on my knees ; The signs of heaven she reads : My face is all the heaven she sees. Is all the heaven she needs. — Geo. Macdonald. 42 MO THER 'S LO VE, MOTHER. /^F all the words cherished in the recollection of man — of all the names held sacred in his memory, that of mother falls upon his heart with the most sub- lime influence. How sweet the recollection in after years of a mother's tender training ; and who is there that finds no relief in recurring to the scenes of his infancy and youth, gilded with the recollection of a mother's tenderness. And how many have nobly owned that to the salutary influence, then exerted, they must ascribe their future success, their avoidance of evil, when no eyes were upon them, but when rested on the heart, the warnings, the prayers, and tears of a mother. The father may be tenderly loved, and all the affec- tions of the heart may be drawn out to him who blessed us before reason dawned upon our minds, or our infant lips could speak his name ; but still a mother's prayers and a mother's entreaties will survive the discordant ele- ments of the world, after every other vestige of better days shall have been obliterated from the mind. Others MO THER 'S LOVE. 43 may love us fondly, but never again while time is ours shall any one's love be to us as fond, as tender, as de- voted, as was that of our dear old trembling mother. Through helpless infancy her throbbing heart was our safe protection and support, and through the ills and maladies of childhood her gentle hand ministered and soothed as none other could., I feel animated to strug- gle more manfully in the great battle of life, when I remember my mother's holy counsel to me in child- hood's early dawn, and in the slippery paths of youth. Ah! those words of tenderness — those pious precepts softened by a " mother's love" — too much unheeded theji, and disregarded — live 7iow, brightened in mem- ory, and constitute my sweetest recollections. Her prayers for me in childhood — her sparkling crystal tears — made an impression on my young mind as dura- ble as time, and even now they bid me walk in the paths of rectitude. And shall I be faithless to my mother? Heaven forbid! 44 MOTHER'S LOVE, MY MOTHER'S VOICE. ly lY mother's voice, how often creeps Its cadence o'er my lonely hours, Like healing sent on wings of sleep, Or dew to the unconscious flowers. I can't forget her melting prayer, Even while my pulses madly fly; And in the still, unbroken air. Her gentle tones come stealing by; And years, and sin, and manhood flee. And leave me at my mother's knee. MO THER 'S LOVE. 45 MOTHER'S FINGERS. — Jessie M. Saxby. AT OTHER'S useful fingers, sewing dainty seams, While her faith is brooding over hopeful dreams; While her heart is happy in a dawning love, Deftly move her fingers for the coming dove. Mother's feeble fingers, fluttering slow and mild, O'er the tiny features of her welcome child. Stroking cherub dimples, smoothing ruffled hair, Tending baby treasures with unrivaled care. Mother's busy fingers, working late and long, Small and soft and tender, only through love strong. Swiftly working wonders, never idly still. Children's bread and raiment, rousing parent's skill. Mother's loving fingers, raising up the weak, Passing cold and gentle, o'er the fevered cheek. Soothing sick and weary, like a touch of dew^ Lifting sinking spirits to their life anew. 46 MO THER 'S LOVE. Mother's pious fingers, turning o'er and o'er All the glowing pages of our sacred lore! Falling on the young brows with a blessing fraught, Mute and earnest, when her God was sought. Mother's faithful fingers, stretching through the cloud, Beckoning back the wanderer and the sinful bow'd, Clasping hands that virtue scarce will touch again, Clinging to the fallen, heedless of each stain. Mother's tender fingers, guiding failing eyes, Holding all the closer as the darling dies ; Lingering o'er each duty to the passive form, Shrouding silent features from the sun and storm. Mother's lifeless fingers, folded on her breast. All their duty ended, laid at last to rest ; Noble work accomplished, quiet fingers cold. Laid in peaceful silence 'mid the coffin mould. Mother's angel fingers, working golden strings Where, a holy harper, sweet her spirit sings ; Pointing out the sky-way, leading those who come, Dear immortal fingers, in the Father's home. MO THER 'S LOVE, 47 A MOTHER'S LOVE. A MOTHER'S love! oh, soft and low ^ As the tremulous notes of the lone dove's call, Or the murmur of waters that gently flow, On the weary heart those accents fall I A mother's love! the sacred thought Unseals the hidden fount of tears. As if the frozen waters caught The purple light of earlier years. A mother's love! oh, 'tis the dew Which nourished life's drooping flowers. And fitteth them to bloom anew *Mid fairer scenes — in brighter bowers. MOTHER'S LOVE, MY MOTHER'S EASY CHAIR. ■ — Sidney Dyer^ npHE days of my youth have all silently sped, And my locks are now grown thin and gray, My hopes like a dream in the morning have fled, And nothing remains but decay. Yet I seem but a child as I was long ago, When I stood by the form of my sire, And my dear mother sang as she rocked to and fro In the old easy chair by the fire. Oh, she was my guardian and guide all the day. And the angel who watched round my bed ; Her voice in a murmur of prayer died away. For blessings to rest on my head. Then I thought ne'er an angel that heaven could knoWj Though trained in its own peerless choir, Could sing like my mother who rocked to and fro In the old easy chair by the fire. ^ How holy the place as we gathered at night Round the altar where peace ever dwelt. MO THER 'S LOVE. 49 To join in an anthem of praise, and unite In thanks which our heart truly felt. In his sacred old seat, with his locks white as snow, Sat the venerable form of our sire, While my dear mother sang as she rocked to and fro In the old easy chair by the fire. The cottage is gone which my infancy knew, And the place is despoiled of its charms. My friends are all gathered beneath the old yew. And slumber in death's folded arms ; But often with rapture my bosom doth glow As I think of my home and my sire, And the dearest of mothers who sang long ago In the old easy chair by the fire. 50 MOTHER'S LOVE. MOTHER'S BIBLE. 'T^HIS book is all that's left me now! Tears will unbidden start, — With faltering lips and throbbing brow. I press it to my heart. For many generations past, Here is our family tree ; My mother's hand this Bible clasped! She, dying, gave it me. Ah! well do I remember those Whose names these records bear, Who round the hearth-stone used to close After the evening prayer, And speak of what those pages said, In tones my heart would thrill! Though they are with the sainted dead. Here are they living still! MOTHER'S LOVE. 51 My father read this holy book To brothers, sisters dear; How calm was my poor mother's look, Who learned God's word to hear. Her angel face, I see it yet! What thronging memories come; Again that little group is met Within the halls of home! Thou truest friend man ever knew, Thy constancy I've tried; When all were false I found thee true, My counselor and guide. The mines of earth no treasure give That could this volume buy; In teaching me the way to live^ It taught me how to die. §2 MO TBER *S LO VE, TREASURED REMEMBRANCES T HAVE very much of treasures ^ That my heart has hid away ; There's a little curl that's brighter Than the sunshine of the day; And a little shoe that's faded, Is among the treasures there And I listen when I see it, For a footstep on the stair. For a patter, patter, patter, Of a footstep on the stair. Now those little feet are silent. And the face is hidden low Underneath the meadow grasses. And the daisies' fragrant snow: And I miss them in the morning, Pattering feet, and face so fair—* But I listen most at bed-time. For the footstep on the stair, For a patter, patter, patter. Of a footstep on the stair. MOTNEWS LOVR* S3 Then she'd come and kneel beside me, In her little gown of white, And she'd say her short prayer over. And would kiss me sweet good-night. And I listen in the twilight, 'Though I know she is not there, But I cannot still my yearning. For the footstep on the stair, For the patter, patter, patter, Of the footstep on the stair. 54 MOTHER'S LOVE. WOMAN. TJ OW continually, in retirement and in the world, is ^^ the lesson of submission forced upon woman. To suffer, and be silent under sufferings, seems the greatest command she has to obey; while man is allowed to wrestle with calamity, and to conquer or die in the struggle. The drying a single tear hath more Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore. I F there be aught surpassing human deed or word or thought, it is a mother's love. — Marchioness de Spadara. nnHE loss of a mother is always felt; even though her health may incapacitate her from taking any active part in the care of her family, still she is a sweet rally- ing point, around which affection and obedience, and a thousand tender endeavors to please, concentrate; and dreary is the blank when such a point is withdrawn' MOTHER'S LOVE. 55 A MOTHER'S THOUGHT OVER A CRADLE. — N. F. Willis. T SADDEN 'vhen thou smilest to my smile, Child of my love! I tremble to believe That o'er the mirror of that eye of blue The shadow of my heart will always pass ; — A heart that, from its struggle with the world, Comes nightly to thy guarded cradle home, And, careless of the staining dust it brings, Asks for its idol ! Strange that flowers of earth Are visited by every air that stirs. And drink in sweetness only, while the child That shuts within its breast a bloom for heaven May take a blemish from the breath of love. And bear the bhght forever. I have wept With gladness at the gift of this fair child I My life is bound up in her. But, O God ! f hou know'st how heavily my heart at times $$ MO THER 'S LO VE. Bears it sweet burthen ; and if Thou hast given To nurture such as mine this spotless flower, To bring it unpolluted unto Thee, Take Thou its love, I pray Thee ! Give it light — Though, following the sun, it turn from me! — But, by the cord thus wrung, and by the light Shining about her, draw me to my child! And link us close, O God, when near to heaven! A SWEET PICTURE. A N ingenious writer says: " If a painter wished to draw the finest object in the world, it would be the picture of a wife, with eyes expressing the serenity of her mind, and a countenance beaming with benevo- lence; one hand lulling to rest on her arm a lovely infant, the other employed in presenting a moral page to another sweet babe, who stands at her knee listening to the words of truth and wisdom from its incompara- ble mother." iriti '- —Page 55 A MOTHER'S THOUGHT OVER A CRADIiE. MOTHER'S LOVE, 57 THE MOTHER TO HER CHILD. — iV. p. Willis. 'T^HEY tell me thou art come from a far world, Babe of my bosom! that these little arms, Whose restlessness is like the spread of wings, Move with the memory of flights scarce o'er — That through these fringed lids we see the soul Steep'd in the blue of its remember'd home, And while thou sleep'st come messengers, they say, Whispering fo thee — and 'tis then I see Upon thy baby lips that smile of heaven! And what is thy far errand, my fair child? Why away, wandering from a home of bliss. To find thy way through darkness home again? Wert thou an untried dweller in the sky? Is there, betwixt the cherub that thou wert, The cherub and the angel thou mayest be, A life's probation in this sadder world? Art thou with memory of two things only. Music and light, left upon earth astray. 58 MOTHER'S LOVE, And, by the watchers at the gate of heaven, Look'd for with fear and trembling ? God ! who gavest Into my guiding hand this wanderer. To lead her through a world whose darkling paths I tread with steps so faltering — leave not me To bring her to the gates of heaven, alone ! I feel my feebleness. Let these stay on — The angels who now visit her in dreams 1 Bid them be near her pillow till in death The closed eyes look upon Thy face once more ! And let the light and music, which the world Borrows of heaven, and which her infant sense Hails with sweet recognition, be to her A voice to call her upward, and a lamp To lead her steps to Thee ! TTTHAT are Raphael's Madonnas but the shadow of a mother's love fixed in permanent outline for- ever ! — Htgginson. MO THER 'S LOVE, 59 MY MOTHER. — Fields. TT7HERE dwells the being in whose bosom affection's tender call meets with a responsive throb of feel- ing, that does not cherish with pleasure the remem- brance of a mother's love, and the assiduous attention of a mother's devotedness? When the first half-meant glistening of the infant eye bespoke " the first dawn of reason," when the puny arms first clasped the maternal neck, and the sweet babe seemed " a pearl of great price " on the bosom, who, with soul-exhausting fervor, pressed the dear treasure to its faithful home? And when the chuckling laugh, and the little, restless, elastic limbs of her dearest, in its playful humor, won her smile, who caressed the sportive child, and gave back kiss for kiss? It was the MOTHER. If some gloomy foreboding, some cloud of care, come over the sunlight of her hope, telling her that the bright being next her heart would smile no more, the tears that bathed the polished brow beneath her look of love were a baptism that would gain it a heaven. 6o MO THER 'S LO VE, When the tottering limbs essayed to move in the harmony of nature, the goal of the infant trial was the parent knee, that reward the parent embrace. The first faint lisp of language, that seemed to be taught by an angel, comes on the mother's ear like undefined music; and the first trial is to sound a mother's name. Oh, thought-enkindling word! connected with every remembered pang of sorrow, and every association of former happiness. The maternal knees are the first altar of devotion; and the clustering head of childhood, bowed in its mother's lap, pours out the sweet and acceptable prayer of innocence. The kind hand that falls with blessings on the youthful brow smoothes the couch of sleep, while the eternal principle of a mother's love, like a guardian spirit, ever watches over its repose. The heyday of youth has passed; and with it have been separated the closer ties that bound me to my mother. Yet the chain of affection has been but loosened; not a link of it has been broken. When the wild war of passion rages, the memory of her love comes like magic over my soul, and, like " oil on the troubled v/aters," calms it to a peaceful and quiet rest. Oh, my mother! may he who has felt love like thine MO THER 'S LOVE. 6i never know love from any, if he once forgets thee. And may the rich blessings of heaven descend on thee, as thou hast often prayed for them to come upon thy child ! IVTOT she with trait'rous kiss her Savior stung ; Not she denied him with unholy tongue : She, when apostles shrank, could danger brave,— Last at the cross and earliest at the grave. T^HE mother's love is at first an absorbing delight, blunting all other sensibilities ; it is an expansion of the animal existence ; it enlarges the imagined range for self to move in ; but in after years it can only continue to be joy on the same terms as other ong-lived love ; that is, by much suppression of self, and power of living in the experience of another. — > George Eliot, 62 MO THER 'S LO VE. BIRTH-DAY VERSES. " The heart that we have first laid near is the only one that can not forget that it has loved us." — Phillip Slingsby. ATY birth-day! — O beloved mother! My heart is with thee o'er the seas. I did not think to count another Before I wept upon thy knees — Before this scroll of absent years Was blotted with thy streaming tears. My own I do not care to check. I weep — albeit here alone — A.S if I hung upon thy neck, As if thy lips were on my own, As if this full, sad heart of mine. Were beating closely upon thine. Four weary years! How looks she now? What light is in those tender eyes? What trace of time has touched the brow MO THER 'S LOVE, 63 Whose look is borrowed of the skies That listen to her nightly prayer? How is she changed since he was there? Who sleeps upon her heart alway — Whose name upon her lips :s worn — For whom the night seems made to pray — For whom she wakes to pray at morn — Whose sight is dim, whose heart-strings stir, Who weeps these tears to think of her? I know not if my mother's eyes Would find me changed in slighter things ; Fve wander'd beneath many skies, And tasted of some bitter springs ; And many leaves once fair and gay, From youth's full flower have dropp'd away — But, as these looser leaves depart. The lessen'd flower gets near the core, And, when deserted quite, the heart Takes closer what was dear of yore — And yearns to those who loved it first — The sunshine and the dew by which its bud was nursed. 64 MO THER' S LOVE. Dear Mother! Dost thou love me yet? Am I remember'd in thy home? When those I love for joy are met, Does some one wish that I would come? Thou dost- — I am beloved of these! But, as the schoolboy numbers o'er Night after night the Pleiades And finds the stars he found before — As turns the maiden oft her token — As counts the miser aye his gold — So, till life's silver cord is broken, Would I of thy fond love be told. My heart is full, mine eyes are wet — Dear Mother! dost thou love thy long-lost wanderer yet' Oh! when the hour to meet again Creeps on — and, speeding o'er the sea, My heart takes up its lengthen'd chain. And, link by link, draws nearer thee — When land is hail'd, and, from the shore. Comes off the blessed breath of home, With fragrance from my mother's door Of flowers forgotten when I am come — MOTHER'S LOVE, 65 When port is gain'd, and slowly now The old familiar paths are pass'd, And, entering — unconscious — how — I gaze upon thy face at last, And run to thee, all faint and weak, And feel thy tears upon my cheek — Oh! if my heart break not with joy, The light of heaven will fairer seem ; And I shall grow once more a boy : And, mother! 'twill be like a dream That we were parted thus for years — And once that we have dried our tears, How will the days seem long and bright — To meet thee always with the morn, And hear thy blessings every night — Thy " dearest," thy " first-born! "— And be no more, as now, in a strange land, forlorn! 'T^HE future destiny of the child is always the work of the mother. — Napoleon, 66 MO THER 'S LOVE, HOMEWARD BOUND. (from EUROPE.) ^Willis. T^EAR mother! in thy prayer to-night, There come new words and warmer tears; On long, long darkness breaks the light-^ Comes home the loved, the lost for years! Sleep safe, oh wave-worn mariner! Fear not, to-night, or storm or sea! The ear of heaven bends low to her! He comes to shore who sails with me! The spider knows the roof unriven. While swings his web, though lightning blaze, And by a thread still fast on heaven I know my mother Hves and prays! Dear mother! when our lips can speak — When first our tears will let us see- — When I can gaze upon thy cheek, And thou, with thy dear eyes, on me—' MO THER 'S LOVE, ^ Twill be a pastime little sad To trace what weight Time's heavy fingers Upon each other's forms have had — For all may flee, so love still lingers ! Bright flag, at yonder tapering mast! Fling out your field of azure blue ; Let star and stripe be westward cast. And point as Freedom's eagle flew! Strain home! oh lithe and quivering spars! THE MOTHER OF JESUS. Willis. O, not alone TN HIS pure teachings and in Calvary's woe, Lay the blest errand of the Savior here. His walk through life's dark pathway blessed yetmore„ Distant from God so infinitely far Was human weakness, till He came to bear, With us, our weaknesses awhile, that fear Had heard Jehovah's voice in thunder only. And worshiped trembling. Heaven is nearer now. 68 MOTHER'S LOVE, At God's right hand sits One who was a child, Born as the humblest, and who here abode Till of our sorrows he had suffered all. They who now weep, remember that he wept. The tempted, the despised, the sorrowing, feel That Jesus, TOO, drank of these cups of woe. And oh, if of our joys he tasted less — If all but one passed from his lips away — That one — A mother's love — by his partaking Is like a thread of heaven spun through our life, And we, in the untiring watch, the tears, The tenderness and fond trust of a mother, May feel a heavenly closeness unto God. /^OD sends us children for another purpose than merely to keep up the race : to enlarge our hearts ; to make us unselfish, and full of kindly sympathies and affections; to give our souls higher aims, and to call out all our faculties to extend enterprise and exer- tion ; to bring round our firesides bright faces, and happy smiles, and loving, tender hearts. — Mary Howitt. MOTHER'S LOVE. 69 LIGHT OF HOME. — Sarah yosepha Hale. 11 TY SON, thou wilt dream the world is fair, And thy spirit will sigh to roam. And thou must go; but never, when there, Forget the Hght of home! Though pleasure may smile with a ray more bright. It dazzles to lead astray; Like the meteor's flash, 'twill deepen the night When treading thy lonely way. But the hearth of home has a constant flame And pure as a vestal fire, — 'Twill burn, 'twill burn forever the same, For nature feeds the pyre. The sea of ambition is tempest-tossed, And thy hopes may vanish like foam; When sails are shivered and compass lost, Then look to the light of home! 70 MO THER 'S L O VE, HOME AGAIN. Abbie C. McKeever. TTOME again; mother, your boy will remain For a time, at least, in the old home again. How good to see you in your cornered nook With knitting, or sewing, or paper, or book; The same sweet mother my boyhood knew, The faithful, the patient, the tender, and true. You have little changed; ah, well, maybe A few gray hairs in the brown I see; A mark or two under smiling eyes, So lovingly bent in your glad surprise; 'Tis I who have changed; ah, mother mine, From a teasing lad to manhood's prime. No longer I climb on your knee at night For a story told in the soft firelight; No broken slate, or book all torn, Do I bring to you with its edges worn; But I'll come to you with my graver cares; You'll help me bear them with tender prayers. ±'age 70. HOME AGAIN- \ MOTHER'S LOVE. 71 I'll come again as of old, and you Will help the man to be brave and true ; For the man's the boy, only older grown, And the world has many a stumbling-stone. Ah, mother mine, there is always rest When I find you in the old home nest. TO A CHILD EMBRACING HIS MOTHER. Thomas Hood. T OVEthy mother, little one, Kiss and clasp her neck again ; Hereafter she may have a son Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain. Love thy mother, little one. Gaze upon her living eyes, And mirror back her love for thee ; Hereafter thou may'st shudder sighs To meet them where they cannot see. Gaze upon her living eyes. 72 MOTHER'S LOVE. Press her lips the while they glow With love that they have often told , Hereafter thou may'st press in woe, And kiss them till thine own are cold. Press her lips the while they glow ! Oh, revere her raven hair ! Although it be not silver gray. Too early, death, led on by care, May snatch, save one dark lock, away. Oh, revere her raven hair ! Pray for her at eve and morn, That heaven may long the stroke defer ; For thou may'st live the hour forlorn When though wilt ask to die with her. Pray for her at eve and morn. T^ HE future of society is in the hands of the mothers. "*■ If the world was lost can save it. — De Beaufort, ^ If the world was lost through woman, she alone MOTHER'S LOVE, 73 CHILDREN. /CHILDREN are what mothers are. No fondest father's fondest care Can fashion so the infant heart As those creative beams that dart, With all their hopes and fears, upon The cradle of a sleeping son. His startled eyes with wonder see A father near him on his knee, Who wishes all the while to trace The mother in his future face ; But 'tis to her alone uprise His wakening arms ; to her those eyes Open with joy and not surprise. QTORIES first heard at a mother's knee are never wholly forgotten — a little spring that never quite dries up in our journey through scorching years. — Rujffini, 74 MOTHER'S LOVE. A MOTHER'S FAREWELL TO HER DAUGHTER. A 1 Y fairest child, I have no song to give you ; •*-''*' No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray ; Yet ere we part, one lesson I can leave you For every day. Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; Do noble things, not dream them all day long; And so make life, death and the vast forever One grand, sweet song. T^HE efforts which a mother makes for the improve- ment of her child in knowledge and virtue are necessarily retired and unobtrusive. The world knows not of them ; and hence the world has been slow to perceive how powerful and extensive is this secret and silent influence. — J, S. C. Abbott, f^OD pardons like a mother, who kisses the offense ' into everlasting forgetfulness. — Beecher. MOTHER'S LOVE. 75 A MOTHER'S INFLUENCE. — yohn B. Gough. T KNOW myself the results of my own Sabbath- school instruction, and I remember the teachings of a praying mother. That mother taught me to pray in early life — gave me the habit of praying; the teacher at the Sabbath-school strengthened it ; they stored my mind with passages of Scripture, and these things, I tell you, young man, we do not entirely for- get. They may be buried, they may be laid away for a time in some obscure corner of the heart, but by and by circumstances will show that we know much more than we thought. After that mother's death I went out into the world, exposed to its mani- fold temptations. I fell ; I acquired bad habits. For seven years of my life I wandered over God's beautiful earth like an unblessed spirit wandering over a barren desert, digging deep wells to quench my thirst and bringing up the dry hot sand. Bound with the fetters of evil habits, habits like an iron net encircling me in its fold — fascinated with my bondage, and yet with a desire, O how fervent! to stand 76 MOTHER'S LOVE. where I once hoped to stand. " Ah," said one, " what is the effect of a mother's teaching and a mother's prayers, of the Sunday-school, and of early good habits ? " O! I stood there, I remember it well, feeling my own weakness, and thinking that the way of the trans- gressor is hard; knowing that the wages of sin is death; feeling in the great deep of my heart all the bitterness that arises from the consciousness of powers wasted and opportunities lost; conscious that I had been chasing mere bubbles and gained nothing. There I stood. That mother had passed to heaven, but her words came back to my mind. I remember, when one night in our garret the candle was failing, that she said: " John, I am growing blind, and I don't mind it much. But you are young; 'it is hard for you. But never mind, John, where I am going there is no night. There is no need of any candle there; the Savior is the light thereof. " She has changed the dark gloomy garret to bask in the sunshine of her Savior's smiles. But her influence was not lost. As I stood feeling my own weakness, know- ing that I could not resist temptation, it seemed as if the very light she left as she passed, had spanned the dark gap of seven years of sin and dissipation and struck MOTHER'S LOVE, 11 the heart and opened it. I felt utterly my own weak- ness, and the passages of Scripture that were stored away in my mind came as if whispered again into my ear by the loving lips of that mother. Made strong by the recollection of her teaching and her prayers, I fled from the ways that lead down to death and was saved, saved through the influence of a mother's love. 78 MOTHER'S LOVE, ROCK ME TO SLEEP. — Mrs. Elizabeth Akers Allen. DACKWARD, turn backward, O Time! in your ^ flight, Make me a child again just for to-night! Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your arms as of yore, Kiss from my foreheau the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep — Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep! Backward, fly backward, O swift tide of years! I am weary of toil, I am weary 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! MOTHER'S LOVE, 79 Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you! Many a summer 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 worship abides and endures. Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours; None like a mother can charm away pain From the sorrowing soul and the world-weary brair. Slumber's soft calm o'er my heavy lids creep; Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep! Come let your brown hair just lighted with gold, Fall on your shoulders again as of old; Let it fall over my forehead to-night. Shielding my eyes from the flickering^ light! 8o MOTHER'S LOVE, For oh! with Us sunny-edged shadows once more, Happy will 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, Since then again, — to my soul it shall seem Womanhood's years have been only a dream; Clasped to your arms in a loving embrace, With your soft hght lashes just sweeping my face, Never hereafter to wake or to weep; Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep! MO THER 'S LOVE, 8i PASS UNDER THE ROD. T SAW a young mother in tenderness bend -■■ O'er the couch of her slumbering boy, And shb kissed the soft lips as she murmured his name, While the dreamer lay silent in joy. Oh, sweet is the rose-bud encircled with dew> When its fragrance is flung on the air, So fresh and so bright to that mother he seem'd, As he lay in his innocence there. But I saw when she gazed on the same lovely form, Pale as marble, and silent, and cold. But paler and colder her beautiful boy, And the tale of her sorrow was told! But the Healer was there who had stricken her heart And taken her treasure away. To allure her to heaven He has placed it on-high, And the mourner will sweetly obey. There had whispered a voice — 'twas the voice of her God " I love thee — I love thee — pass under the rod!'* 82 MOTHER'S LOVE. THE CHILDLESS MOTHER. ^•Mary Clemmer Ames, T LAY my tasks down one by one, ^ I sit in the silence of twilight grace; Out in the shadow soft and drear Steals like a star my baby's face. V Mockingly cold are the world's poor joys, How poor to me all its pomp and pride; In my lap lie the baby's idle toys, In this very room the baby died, I will shut these broken toys away Under the lid where they mutely bide; I will smile in the face of noisy day, Just as if baby had never died. ) will take up my work once more, As if I had never laid it down; Who will dream that I ever wore Motherhood's fine and holy crown? MOTHER'S LOVE, 83 Who will dream my life ever bore Fruit the sweeter in grief and pain? The flitting smile that the baby wore Outrayed the light of the loftiest brain. I'll meet the man in the world's rude din Who hath outlived his mother's kiss. Who hath forsaken her love for sin — I will be spared her pain in this. Man's way is hard and sin-beset; Many must fall, but few can win — Thanks, dear Shepherd! my lamb is safe, Safe from sorrow, and safe from sin. Nevertheless the way is long, And tears leap up in the light of the sun; I'd give my world for a cradle song, And a kiss from baby — only one. 84 MOTHER'S LOVE, I'M FRIGHTENED IN THE DARK, TTTE sat within a lighted room, ' ' My baby-boy and I ; But empty were my loving arms, Where he was wont to lie, And look up fondly in my face. For pretty toys were near; And though I called him lovingly, The darling would not hear. I yearned to clasp him to my heart. But wooed him all in vain, To leave his play and come to me Would give him too much pain. 1 took the candle in my hand, And with a breath of air, Extinguished its soft, cheerful light, And made all darkness there. And soon I heard a sweet-toned voice To which I love to hark, MOTHER'S LOVE, 85 Cry, " Mother, take me in your. arms! Fm frightened in the dark ; '* And then I caught the sweet boy up And felt him clasp me tight, And knew that I was needed then, Because there was no light. And as my darling grew in years, The brightness of my joy Made me adore our Father less Than I adored my boy. He called me in a tender tone — His voice is always mild — But I refused to go to him, And played on with my child. And then he blew my candle out By stopping Harry's breath ; In the anguish of that grief And darkness of that death, I cried out in a trembling voice 86 MOTHER'S LOVE. And with an aching brow : " I'm coming to thee, O my God! For my heart needs thee now! " — By the author 0/ Little Folks. THE BRAVE AT HOME. — Thomas B. Read. 'T^HE mother who conceals her grief When to her breast her son she presses, Then breathes a few brave words and brief, Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, With no one but her secret God To know the pain that weighs upon her, — Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod Received on freedom's field of honor. MOTHER'S LOVE. 87 THE LITTLE BLUE SHOES. Wm. B, Bennett. /^H those little, those little blue shoes ! Those shoes that no little feet use. Oh, the price were high That those shoes would buy, Those little blue unused shoes ! For they hold the small shape of feet That no more their mother's eye meet, That by God's good will. Years since grew still, And ceased from their totter so sweet And oh, since that baby slept. So hushed, how the mother has kept, With a tearful pleasure. That dear little treasure, And o'er them thought and wept ! * 88 MOTHER'S LOVE, For they mind her evermore Of a patter along the floor, And blue eyes she sees Look up from her knees, With the look that in life they wore. As they lie before her there. There babbles from chair to chair A little sweet face That's a gleam in the place, With its little gold curls of hair. Then oh, wonder not that her heart From all else would rather part Than those tiny blue shoes That no little feet use, And whose sight makes such fond tears start. MOTHER'S LOVE, 89 MOTHER'S BOYS. 'XTES, I know there are stains on my carpet, The traces of small, muddy boots ; And I see your fair tapestry glowing, And spotless with flowers and fruits. And I know that my walls are disfigured With prints of small fingers and hands ; And that your own household most truly In immaculate purity stands. And I know that my parlor is littered With many old treasures and toys, While your own is in daintiest order. Unharmed by the presence of boys. And I know that my room is invaded Quite boldfy all hours of the day ; While you sit in yours unmolested And dream the soft quiet away. go MOTHER'S LOVE. Yes, I know there are four little bedsides Where I must stand watchful each night, While you go out in your carriage, And flash in your dresses so bright. Now, I think I'm a neat little woman, And I like my house orderly, too ; And am fond of all dainty belongings. Yet would not change places with you. No! keep your fair home with its order. Its freedom from bother and noise ; And keep your own fanciful leisure. But give me my four splendid boys. MOTHER'S LOVE. 91 A MOTHER'S HEART. ■Caroline Norton. TTTHEN first thou comest, gentle, shy, and fond. My eldest born, first hope, and dearest treasure, My heart received thee with a joy beyond All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure; Nor thought that any love again might be So deep and strong as that I felt for thee. Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years, And natural piety that leaned to heaven; Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears, Yet patient to rebuke when justly given; Obedient, easy to be reconciled, And meekly cheerful; such wert thou, my child! Not willing to be left — still by my side, Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying; Nor leaving in thy turn, but pleased to gHde Through the dark room where I was sadly lying; 92 MOTHER'S LOVE, Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek. Watch the dim eye, or kiss the fevered cheek. O boy! of such as thou are oftenest made Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower, No strength in all thy freshness, prone to fade, And bending weakly to the thunder-shower; Still, round the loved, thy heart found force to bind, And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind! Then thou, my merry love, — bold in thy glee. Under the bough, or by the fire-light dancing, With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free, — Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing glancing, Full of wild and irrepressible mirth, Like a young sunbeam to the gladdened earth! Thine was the shout, the song, the burst of joy, Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip resoundeth; Thine was the eager spirit naught could cloy. And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth; MOTHER'S LOVE, 93 And many a mirthful jest and mock reply L.urked in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye. And thine was many an art to win and bless, The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming; The coaxing smile, the frequent soft caress, The earnest, tearful prayer all wrath disarming! Again my heart a new affection found, But thought that love with thee had reached its bound. At length thou earnest — thou, the last and least, Nicknamed "The Emperor" by thy laughing brothers, Because a haughty spirit swelled thy breast, And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others, Mingling with every playful infant wile A mimic majesty that made us smile. And O, most like a regal child wert thou! An eye of resolute and successful scheming! Fair shoulders, curling lips, and dauntless brow, Fit for the world's strife, not for poet's dreaming; 04 MOTHER'S LOVE. And proud the lifting of thy stately heaa, And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread. Different from both! yet each succeeding claim I, that all other love had been forswearing, Forthwith admitted, equal and the same; Nor injured either by this love's comparing, Nor stole a fraction for the newer call, — But in the mother's heart found room for all! QUEEN OF BABY LAND. TTfHO is queen of baby land? Mother kind and sweet, And her love, born above, Guides the little feet. MOTHER'S LOVE. ^ T' WILLY'S GRAVE. — Edwin Waugh, 'HE frosty wind was wailing wild across the wintry v.'orld ; The cloudless vault of heaven was bright with studs ot gleaming gold ; The weary cotter's heavy lids had closed with closing day, And on his silent hearth a tinge of dying fire-light lay. The ancient hamlet seemed asleep beneath the starry sky ; A little river sheathed in ice came gliding gently by ; The gray church in the grave-yard where the " rude forefathers lay," Stood like a mother waiting till her children came from play. No footstep trod the tiny town, the drowsy street was still, Save when the wandering night wind sang its requiem wild and shrill, 96 MOTHER'S LOVE. The stainless snow lay thick upon those quaint old cot- tage eaves, x\nd wreaths of fairy frost-work hung where grew last summer's leaves. Each village home was dark and still, and closed was every door, For gentle sleep had twined her arms around both rich and poor, — Save in one little cot, where, by a candle's flickering ray, A childless mother sighing sat, and combed her locks of gray. Her husband and her children all were in the last cold bed. Where, one by one, she'd laid them down, and left them with the dead ; Then toiling on towards her rest — a lonely pilgrim she — For God and poverty were now her only company. Upon the shady window-sill a well-worn Bible lay ; Against the wall a coat had hung for many a weary day; MOTHER'S LOVE. 97 And on the scanty table-top with crumbs of supper strewn, There stood beside a porringer, two little empty shoon. The fire was waning in the grate, the spinning-wheel at rest, The cricket's song rang loudly in that lonely woman's nest, As with her napkin thin and worn, and wet with many a tear, She wiped the Httle pair of shoon her darling used to wear. Her widowed heart had often leaped to hear his prattl<* small; He was the last that she had left, the dearest of them all; And as she rocked her to and fro while tears came dropping down, She sighed and cried, " O, Willy love, these little empty shoon!" » With gentle hand she laid them by, she laid them by with care, Nor Willy he was in his grave, and all her thoughts were thf re; gS MOTHER'S LOVE. She paused before she dropped the snick that closed her lambless fold, It grieved her heart to bar the door and leave him in the cold. A threadbare cloak she wrapped around her limbs so thin and chill; She left her lonely cot behind whilst all the world was still; And through the solitary night she took her silent way With weeping eyes, toward the spot where little Willy lay. The pale, cold moon had climbed aloft into the welkin blue, A snow-clad tree across the grave its leafless shadows threw; And as that mournful mother sat upon a mound thereby, The bitter wind of winter sighed to hear her wailing cry. " My little Willy's cowed an' still! He's not a cheep for me! Th' last leaf has dropt, th' last tiny leaf that cheered this withered tree. MOTHER'S LOVE. 99 Oh, my poor heart! my comfort's gone, aw'm lonely under th' sky! He'll never chip my cheek again, and tell me not to cry!" " Nipt-nipt i' th' bud, an' laid i' th' dust, my Httle Willy's dead, And a' that made me cling to life lies in this frosty bed, — He's gone! He's gone! My poor bare nest! What's a' this world to me! My darlin' lad! aw'm lonely neaw; when mun aw come to thee? " " He's crept into this last dark nook, and left me pinin here! An' never moore his two blue e'en for me mun twinkle clear. He'll never lisp his prayers again at his poor mammy's knee; Oh, Willy! oh aw'm lonely neaw, when mun aw come to thee? " The snow-clad yew-tree stirred with pain, to hear that plaintive cry; lOO MOTHER'S LOVE. The old church listened, and the spire kept pointing to the sky; With kindlier touch the bitter wind played in her locks of gray, And the queenly moon upon her head shone with a softened ray. She rose to leave that lonely bed, her heart was griev- ing sore, — One step she took and then her tears fell faster than before; She turned and gave another look, — -one lingering look she gave, — Then sighing left him lying in his little wintry grave. MOTHER'S LOyji. lo: I MOTHER-LOVE. ^F. T. Morgan GAVE my maiden-love tender and shy, And yet I was sad. Why ? O why ? I gave my wife-love pure and true, And yet — and yet I was longing too! God gave me mother-love warm and strong, And my sadness was lost in my lullaby song. "T^ATHER, we will be comforted! Thou wast the gracious giver! We yield her up — not dead, not dead — To dwell with thee forever. Take thou our child, — ours for a day, Thine while the ages blossom, This little shining head we lay In the Redeemer's bosom. I02 MO TMER'S L O VE. THE BABY. 1 F we knew the baby fingers, Pressed against the window pane, Would be cold and stiff to-morrow^ — Never trouble us again — Would the bright eyes of our darling Catch the frown upon our brow? — Would the prints of rosy fingers Vex us then as they do now? Ah! those little ice-cold fingers, How they point our memories back To the hasty words and actions Strewn along our backward track! How those little hands remind us As in snowy grace they lie, Not to scatter thorns — but roses — - For our reaping by and by. Sweet is tlie image of the brooding dove ! Holy as heaven a mother's tender love. — Mrs. Norton. MOTHER'S LOVE, 103 THE MOTHER'S FIRST GRIEF. '-'Robert Smyth Chilton QHE sits beside the cradle, And her tears are streaming fast, For she sees the present only, While she thinks of all the past: Of the days so full of gladness. When her first-born's answering kiss Thrilled her soul with such a rapture That it knew no other bliss. O those happy, happy moments! They but deepen her despair; For she bends above the cradle, And her baby is not there I There are words of comfort spoken. And the leaden clouds of grief Wear the smiling bow of promise, And she feels a sad relief; But her wavering thoughts will wandei; Till they settle on the scene 104 MOTHER'S LOVE, Of the dark and silent chamber, And of all that might have been. For a little vacant garmenF, Or a shining tress of hair, Tells her heart, in tones of anguish, That her baby is not there! She sits beside the cradle, But her tears no longer flow. For she sees a blessed vision. And forgets all earthly woe; Saintly eyes look down upon her, And the Voice that hushed the sea Stills her spirit with the whisper " Suffer them to come to Me." And while her soul is lifted On the soaring wings of prayer, Heaven's crystal gates swing inward. And she sees her baby there! MOTHER'S LOVE. 105 MATERNAL LOVE. — Alexander Bethune, TTNLIKE all other things earth knows, (All else may fade or change,) The love in a mother's heart that glows, Naught earthly can estrange. Concentrated and strong, and bright, A vestal flame it glows With pure, self-sacrificing light, Which no cold shadow knows. All that by mortal can be done A mother ventures for her son; If marked by worth or 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 illj, Unchanged, a mother loves him still. Even love itself, than life more dear, — io6 MOTHER'S LOVE. Its interchange of hope and fear ; Its feeling oft akin to madness ; Its fevered joys, and anguish-sadness ; Its melting moods of tenderness, And fancied wrongs, and fond redress, Hath naught to form so strong a tie As her deep sympathies supply. MOTHER'S LOVE, 107 MY MOTHER'S SONG. 'T^HIS quiet autumn evening, out through the autumn gloom, My thoughts are fondly turning to thee, my dear old home; And through the misty distance the years seem sad and long, Since 'neath the roof in childhood, I heard my mother's song; — A sweet old simple ballad, whose notes were soft and low. Still o'er the heart its echo in soothing numbers flow. Though in the grave's dafk chambers the Hps are silent long, That by the hearth at even oft sang my mother's song. Oh, mother! though long parted, the memory of thy love Illumes life's darkest shadows, and points to light above; io8 MOTHER'S LOVE. It nerves us in our trials to suffer and be strong — The sunny days of childhood come back with that old song. On the sad soul, in hours of weariness and pain, It falls as on the flowers falls the softest summer rain; And when temptation beckons into the path of wrong, In notes of gentle warning I hear my mother's song. That dear old song must ever find an echo in my heart, Till by death's icy fingers its cords are snapped apart; One strain would still be wanting the angel choirs among If there the voice was silent that sang my mother's song. MOTHER'S LOVE. 109 MY DARLING'S SHOES. /^OD bless the little feet that can never go astray, For the little shoes are empty, in my closet laid away. I sometimes take one in my hand, forgetting till I see It is a little half-worn shoe, and much too small for me; And all at once I feel a sense of bitter loss and pain, And sharp as when, two years ago, it cut my heart in twain. Oh, little feet, that weary not, I wait for them no more, For I am drifting on the tide, and they have reached the shore; And while the blinding tear-drops wet these little shoes so old, I try to think my darling's feet are treading streets of gold : And then I lay them down again, but always turn and say, God bless the little feet that now so surely cannot stray, no MOTHER'S LOVE. And while I thus am standing, I almost seem to see The little form beside me just as it used to be; The little face uplifted, with its soft and tender eyes — Ah, me! I might have known that look was born for Paradise. I reach my arms out fondly, but they clasp the empty air, For there is nothing of my darling but the shoes he used to wear. Oh! the bitterness of parting cannot be done away Until I meet my darling, where his feet can never stray; When I no more am drifted upon the surging tide, But with him safely landed upon the river-side. Be patient, heart ! while waiting to see the shining way, For the little feet in the shining street can never go astray. — Anonymous. MOTHER'S LOVE. m A MOTHER'S LOVE. — yames Montgomery. A 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; A warmer love than 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. Its weakness in her arms to bear; To cherish on her breast. Feed it from love's own fountain there, 112 MOTHER'S LOVE. 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 ; MOTHER'S LOVE. 1 13 Your bosoms yearn, your eyes o'erflow ; Yet, ah! remember this, — The infant, reared alone for earth, May Hve, may die, — to curse his birth ; — Is this a mother's love? A parent's hand 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 *;hought The day-spring 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, 114 MOTHER'S LOVE. Thus taught her son to flee the wrath, And know the fear of God: Ah, youth! Uke him enjoy your prime ; Begin eternity in time. Taught by that mother's love. That mother's love! — how sweet the namel 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 cold: This was that mother's love. MOTHER'S LOVE, 115 IS IT THOU, MOTHER? r ONG years ago she visited my chamber, Steps soft and slow, a taper in her hand, Her fond kiss she laid upon my eyelids, Fair as an angel from the unknown land; Mother, mother, is it thou I see? Mother, mother, watching over me. And yesterday night I saw her cross my chamber Soundless and light, a palm branch in her hand; Her mild eyes bent upon my anguish. Calm as an angel from the blessed land; Mother, mother, is it thou I see? Mother, mother, art thou come for me? 1,6 MOTHER'S LOVE. KISS MY EYELIDS DOWN TO-NIGHT. KISS me, mother, kiss me gently, Kiss my eyelids down to-night, I'm so lonely, and without you Cannot say my prayers aright. Kiss my eyeHds, loving mother, . As you did in days long gone When I slept upon your bosom, Kiss them, mother, just once more. Sing to me, my darling mother, Sing your softest lullaby; Let me dream that I am sitting Once again upon your knee. Let my dreams be all about you. Let them all be pure and bright. Let me dream that you will always Kiss my eyelids down at night. MO THER 'S LOVE, 117 GENERAL GARFIELD'S MOTHER. TTTHEN James A. Garfield was a child, when he was a grown-up boy, and when he was a young man, his mother's love prompted her to toil and care for him, and to lead him in the ways of truthfulness and upright- ness. In return for her faithful toil and love and care, he labored to make her happy, and to do her honor. When Garfield was inaugurated President of the United States, on the 4th of March, 1881, after he had taken the oath of office in the presence of many thou- sand people, he kissed the Holy Bible, and then turned and kissed his aged mother, and his wife. No artist can do justice to that event. He knew how proud his mother was to see him installed in the highest office in the gift of the American people, and in that hour of exaltation his heart turned to her. Months rolled by, and he was assassinated ; and during all the long, weary weeks of terrible suffering that followed, he wrote but one letter, and that was to his mother. He knew she was weeping for him, and ii8 MOTHER'S LOVE. that her thoughts were all of her " dear afflicted son." He knew well the depths of his mother's love, that she longed and prayed for his recovery every hour of the long and weary days; and in answer to this love, he wrote only to her during those dreadful weeks. He was surrounded by men of state, attended by the leading physicians of the country, and anxiously inquired after and sympathized with by all civilized nations on earth ; he was watched over and cared for by many good friends, and by a devoted and faithful wife; yet in the midst of all this, his thoughts turned to his old home. " Mother! dear mother! my heart calls for you." " I must write to mother ; " and calling for pen and ink, he wrote the only letter penned by him after the assassin struck him down. When Garfield's mother heard of his assassination, she exclaimed : ** Oh! why did they shoot my baby? " He was her youngest child, and her thoughts went back through the years of toil and care, and he was again at her knee. " My baby," was the dearest name, and the depths of a mother's love, surpassed alone by the love MOTHER'S LOVE. 119 of God for the world, was awakened in her heart, and found expression in words that were dear to her when the President of the United States was a child in her arms. 'T^HE parental love which fills a woman's heart when she holds her little child in her arms, as even we childless ones must see, is something so divine, so pure from all selfishness, where it is felt aright, that every care and fatigue and sacrifice comes to the mother as a matter of course. — Frances Power Cobbe. A LL that I am my mother made me. — John Quincy Adams. 'T^HE mother's yearning, that complete type of life in another's life which is the essence of real human love, feels the presence of the cherished child even in the base, degraded man. — George Eliot, t20 MO THER 'S LOVE. WHERE'S MY BABY? TTTHERE'S my baby? Where's my baby? But a little while ago, In my arms I held one fondly, And a robe of lengthened flow- Covered little knees so dimpled, And each pink and chubby toe. Where's my baby ? I remember Now about the shoes so red, Peeping from his shortened dresses, And the bright curls on his head; Of the little teeth so pearly, And the first sweet words he said. Where's my baby ? Ask that urchin, Let me hear what he will say; " Where's your baby, ma? " he questioned, With a roguish look and way; " Guess he's grown to be a boy, now, Big enough to work and play. " MO THER 'S LOVE. ISX Where's my baby? Where's my baby? Ah! the years fly on apace! Yesterday I held and kissed it, In its loveliness and grace; But to-morrow sturdy manhood Takes the little baby's place. I AM the mother of an immortal being! God be merciful to me a sinner! — Margaret Fuller Ossoli. LITTLE BOOTS. — Mrs, L. R. Janes: ATOT those I sadly laid away, With little stockings soft and gay. That sunless, heart-sick, saddest day, I passed beneath the rod; I wipe from them the gathering mold, I wonder at their growing old, Then I think how long the streets of gold My little one has trod. 122 MO THER 'S LO VE. To-day a little larger pair Are traversing the hall and stair, Or somersaulting in the air, Are never, never still: Down at the heel! Out at the toes! Mud-covered! every mother knows How " in-and-out" her dear boy goes, Oft chide him as she will. But life and strength and glowing health, Come through those little boots by stealth, And willing errands, love's sweet wealth At bidding brings us joy, Bear with the little boots I pray; Soon into life they'll walk away, And sitting lone, your heart will say, Where is my little boy? r\^ all the relations of womanhood, wives and moth- ers only can enjoy " the harvest song" of inward peace. — Mrs. Barbauld, MO THER 'S LO VE. 123 THE MOTHER WANTS HER BOY. n^HERE'S a homestead waiting for you, my boy, In a quaint old-fashioned town ; The gray moss clings to the garden wall, And the dwelling is low and brown ; But a vacant chair by the fireside stands, And never a grace is said ; But a mother prays that her absent son Soon may be homeward led, For the mother wants her boy. * She trains the vines and tends the flowers, For she says, " My boy will come ; And I want the quiet, humble place To be just the dear old home That it seemed when he, a gentle lad. Used to pluck the orchard's gold, And gather of roses and lilies tall. Far more than his hands could hold, And still I want my boy. " 124 MO THER 'S LO VE. How well she knows the very place Where you played at bat and ball ; And the violet cap you wore to school, Still hangs on its hook in the hall ; And when the twilight hour draws near She steals adown the lane To cosset the lambs you used to pet, And dream you were home again ; For the mother wants her boy. She is growing old, and her eyes are dim With watching day by day, For the children nurtured at her breast Have slipt from her arms away; Alone and lonely, she names the hours As the dear ones come and go : Their coming she calls " The time of flowers ! " Their going, " The hours of snow ! " And ever she wants her boy. Walk on, toil on : give strength and mind To the task in your chosen place ; But never forget the dear old home, And the mother's loving face ! MOTHER'S LOVE. 125 You may count your blessings score on score, You may reap your golden grain, But remember when her grave is made Your coming will be in vain, — 'Tis now she wants her boy. MY OLD SILVER THIMBLE. — Mrs. S. y. Megage/K 'T^HE old silver thimble I've worn for years. How much it has helped me to do! In mending the rents in little ones' clothes, Or making them clothes that were new. At morn it was shown on my finger, When the dew still sprinkled the flowers, And has taken the gleam of the lamplight Mid latest of night's quiet hours. It helped to fashion the trousers, Which Johnnie was proud to display, And the fairy-like dresses that clung to The delicate form of dear May. 126 MOTHER'S LOVE. In the dark room it quietly glittered, When our sweer little baby lay dead; Whilst it pressed in the needle that broidered The tiny lace cap for its head. And again, in the time of the bridal, 'Twas ready to help us its best, In forming the robes of the birdling Then leaving the warm parent nest. And so it has proven trustworthy For what it was called on to do. No flaws have come o'er its clean surface, Its silver is sterling and true. And though for the " latest invention," That takes up the stitches so fast. It is sometimes unused and neglected, 'Tis bright as it was in the past. If we, who have souls in our bodies, Were staunch as this thimble has been, On eartli would be more of God's people, And less of corruption and sin. MOTHER'S LOVE. 127 Then standing at last with freed spirits, At the great gates of jasper and gold, The angels would warmly enclose us In God's ever-glorious fold. HER MOTHER'S EAR. — Emma M. yohnston. 'T^HEY sat at the spinning together, And they spun the fine white thread; One face was old and the other young, A golden and silver head. And at times the young voice broke in song That was wonderfully sweet, And the mother's heart beat deep and calm. For her joy was most complete. And at times the mother counseled ' In a voice so soft and low, How the untried feet of her daughter Through this strange, rough life should go. r2fi MOTHER'S LOVE. There was many a holy lesson Inwoven with silent prayer, Taught to her gentle, listening child As they two sat spinning there. " And of all that I speak, my darling, From my older head and heart, God giveth me one last thing to say, And with it thou shalt not part. " Thou wilt listen to many voices — And ah, woe that this must be! — The voice of praise and the voice of love And the voice of flattery ; " But listen to me, my dearest one: There's one thing that thou shalt fear, Let never a word to my love be said Which her mother may not hear. " No matter how true, my darling one, The words may seem to thee, They are not fit for my child to hear If they cannot be told to me, —Page 127' Bring all that is told to tnee by day At juRht to thy mother's ear. MOTHER'S LOVE. 129 " If thou'llt ever keep thy young heart pure, And thy mother's heart from fear , Bring all that is told to thee by day At night to thy mother's ear." And thus they sat spinning together, And an angel bent to see The mother and child whose happy life Went on so lovingly. And a record was made by his golden pen, And this on his page he said, That the mother who counseled her child so well Need never feel afraid ; For God would keep the heart of the child Who, with tender love an^l fear, Should kneel at her mother's side at night, With her lips to her mother's ear. H E is happiest, be he king or peasant, who finds peace in his home. — Goethe, I30 MO THER ' S LOVE. MY GOOD, OLD-FASHIONED MOTHER. —Mrs. S. T. Perry. 'T^HEY brought home the portrait last night to me; On the parlor walls it is hung. I gave to the artist a picture small, Which was taken when she was young. It's true to life; and there's a look in the eyes I never saw in another; And the same sweet smile that she always wore — 'Tis my good, old-fashioned mother. The hair in the pictjyre's wavy and dark, 'Twas taken before she was gray ; And the same short curls, at the side, hang down — For she always wore it that way. Her hand on the Bible easily rests. As when, with sisters and brother, I knelt at her knee, reciting my verse, To my good, old-fashioned mother. MO THER 'S LOVE. 131 Her dress it is plain and quite out of style. Not a puff or ruffle is there ; And no jewels or gold glitter and shine ^ She never had any to wear. Ambition for wealth, or love of display, We could not even discover, For poor in spirit and humble in heart Was my good, old-fashioned mother. Her life was crowded with work and with care ; How did she accomplish it all ! I do not remember she ever complained. And yet she was slender and small. Motives of life that were selfish or wrong. With Christian grace did she smother. She lived for her God and the loved ones at home, My true, good, old-fashioned mother. The years of her life were only three-score, When the messenger whispered low, " The Master has come and calleth for thee." She answered, " I'm ready to go. " 134 MO THER 'S LOVE. I gaze alone on her portrait to-night, And more than ever I love her, And I thank the Lord that He gave to me Such a good, old-fashioned mother. TTfHEN Eve was brought unto Adam, he became filled with the Holy Spirit, and gave her the most sanctified, the most glorious appellations. He called her Eva, that is, mother ; he did not style her wife, but simply mother — mother of all living crea- tures. In this consists the glory and most precious ornament of -wovadin. —Luther. THE SPELLS OF HOME. '■^ Bernard Barton. n^HERE blend the ties that strengthen Our hearts in hours of grief. The silver links that lengthen Joy's visits when most brief. MOTHER'S LOVE. 133 I A MOTHER^S TREASURES. HAVE some withered flowers That are softly laid away; Not because they were so beautiful And fragrant in their day, But little fingers clasped them, And little lips caressed, And little hands so tenderly Placed them on a " mother's" breast The paper that enfolds them Was white in other years, But 'tis rumpled now and crumpled, And stained with many tears. Yet, though they look so worthless This paper and the flowers, They clasp and hold, like links of goldy. Memories of jewel hours. I have some little ringlets ; They are softly laid away ; Their lustre and their beauty Are like the sun's glad ray. 134 MOTHER'S LOVE. But 'tis not for this I prize them ; It is that they restore The tender grace of loving face That gladdens earth no more. As the shipwrecked men at midnight Have oft been known to cling, With a silent prayer, in wild despair, To some frail, floating thing ; So I, in darkened moment, Clasp, with a voiceless prayer. While wandering wide on grief's deep tide, These locks of golden hair. I have some broken playthings That are softly laid away With some dainty little garments Made in a long-past day. In each there is a history, But this I may not tell, Lest the old, old flood of sorrow Again should rise and swell. MOTHER'S LOVE, 135 Now that the skies are brightened, And the fearful storm is o'er, Let me sit in tender calmness On memory's silent shore, And count the simple treasures That still remain to show Where hope's fair freight, by saddest fate, Was shipwrecked long ago. I have another treasure That is softly laid away. And though I have not seen it This many a weary day. From everything around me Comes a token and a sign That 'tis fondly watched and guarded, And that it still is mine. When the flowers lie dead in winter, In their winding-sheets of snow, We know they'll rise to charm our eyes Again in summer's glow ; 136 MO THER 'S LO VE. Thus I, in this chill season, When frost and darkness reign, Wait the blest spring whose warmth shall bring Life to my flower again. BETTER IN THE MORNING. — Leander S. Co an. ^^TTOU can't help the baby, parson. But still I want ye to go Down an' look in upon her, An' read an' pray, you know. Only last week she was skippin' round A puUin' my whiskers and hair, A climbin' up to the table Into her little high-chair. " The first night that she took it. When her little cheeks grew red, When she kissed good night to papa, And went away to bed — MOTHER'S LOVE. 137 Sez she, *'Tis headache, papa. Be better in mornin,* bye; ' An'somethin' in how she said it Jest made me want to cry. ** But the mornin* brought the fever And her little hands were hot. And the pretty red of her little cheeks Grew into a crimson spot. But she laid there jest ez patient Ez ever a woman could, Takin* whatever we give her Better'n a grown woman would. " The days are terrible long an* slow, An' she's grown' wus in each; An' now she's jest a slippin* Clear away out ov our reach. Every night when I kiss her, Tryin' hard not to cry, She says in a way that kills me — *Be better in mornin* — bye!* 138 . MOTHER'S LOVE. " She can't get through the night, parson, So I want ye to come an* pray, And talk with mother a little — You'll know jest what to say. Not that the baby needs it. Nor that we make any complaint That God seems to think he's needin* The smile uv the little saint. " I walked along with the corporal To the door of his humble home, To which the silent messenger Before me had already come; And if he had been a titled prince I would not have been honored more Than I was with his heartfelt welcome To his lowly cottage-door. Night falls again in the cottage; They move in silence and dread Around the room where the baby Lies panting upon her bed. MOTHER'S LOVE. 139 ** Does baby know papa, darling ? ** And she moves her little face, With answer that shows she knows him ; But scarcely a visible trace Of her wonderful infantile beauty Remains as it was before The unseen, silent messenger Had waited at the door. " Papa — kiss — baby ; I's — so— tired." The man bows low his face, And two swollen hands are lifted In baby's last embrace. And into her father's grizzled beard The little red fingers cling. While her husky whispered tenderness Tears from a rock would wring. Baby — is — so — sick — papa — But — don't — want — you — to — cry. The little hand fell on the coverlet — " Be — better — in — mornin' — bye! " I40 MOTHER'S LOVE, And night around baby is falling, Settling down dark and dense ; Does God need their darling in heaven, That he must carry her hence ? I prayed with tears in my voice. As the corporal solemnly knelt, With such grief as never before His great warm heart had felt. Oh! frivolous men and women! Do you know that around you and nigh Alike from the humble and haughty — Goeth up evermore the cry : " My child, my precious, my darling, How can I let you die ? " Oh, hear ye, the white lips whisper, " Be — better — in — mornin' — bye ! " /^NE lamp, thy mother's love, amid the stars shall lift its pure flame changeless, and before the throne of God burn through eternity. — N, F, Willis. MOTHER'S LOVE. 141 THE MOTHER. " A perfect woman nobly planned. " —E. V, S, ATEVER too tired to hear or heed The sHghtest cry of her children's need ; Never impatient in look or word, By what tender thoughts her heart is stirred. Through nights of watching and busy days, Unwearied, she asks no need of praise ; For others spending and being spent, She finds therein her sweet content. Though decked in no robes of silken sheen, In her small domain she walks a queen ; Outshining far the costliest gem. A spirit meek is her diadem. Though fortune frown, she is brave of heart, No selfish thought in her life has part ; Patient and trustful though storms may lower ; A faithful friend in life's darkest hour. 142 MOTHER'S LOVE, A MOTHER'S WORK. " She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness. " — Prov. xxxi, 27. TJARLY in the morning, Up as soon as light, Overseeing breakfast, Putting things a-right. Dressing little children. Hearing lessons said. Washing baby faces. Toasting husband's bread. After breakfast, reading, Holding one at prayers ; Putting up the dinners. Mending little tears ; Good-bye, kissing children, Sending off to school, With a prayer and blessing, Mother's heart is full. MOTHER'S LOVE. 143 Washing up the dishes, Sweeping carpets clean, Doing up the chamber-work Sewing on machine ; Baby hes a-crying, R ubbing Httle eyes ; Mother leaves her sewing To sing the lullabies. Cutting little garments, Trimming children's hats. Writing for the papers, With callers having chats ; Hearing little footsteps Running through the hall, Telling school is over, As mamma's name they call. Talking with the children All about their school. Soothing little troubles, Teaching grammar rules; 144 MOTHER'S LOVE. Seeing about supper, Lighting up the room, Making home look cheerful. Expecting husband soon. Then, with all her headaches, Keeping to herself. Always looking cheerful, Other lives to bless. Putting to bed children, Hearing say their prayers, Giving all a good-night's kiss Before she goes down-stairs. Once more in the parlor, Sitting down to rest, Reading in the Bible How His promises are blest ; Taking all her sorrows And every care to One, With that trusting, hopeful heart, Which none but mothers own. MOTHER'S LOVE. 145 THE MOTHER'S DAY-DREAM. — ^. c, M. A MOTHER sat at her sewing, But her brow was full of thought ; The little one playing beside her, Her own sweet mischief wrought. A book on a chair lay near her ; Twas open, I strove to see, At the old Greek artist's story : " I paint for eternity. " So I fancied all her dreaming ; I watched her serious eye, As the 'broidery dropped from her fingers, And she heaved a heartfelt sigh. She drew the little one nearer. And looked on the sunny face. Swept the bright curls from the open brow, And kissed it with loving grace. 146 MOTHER'S LOVE. And she thought : " I, too, am an artist ; My life-work here I see, This sweet, dear face, my hand must trace, I must paint for eternity. Hence, each dark passion shadow! Pain's deeply-graven lines! Hers must be the reflected beauty That from the pure heart shines. " But how shall I blend the colors, How mingle the light and shade, Or arrange the weird surroundings The future has arrayed? Oh, life! thou has weary night-falls, And days all drear that be, But, from thy darkness, marvelous grace Wilt thou evoke for me? " Alas, that I am but a learner! So where shall I make me wise, Or obtain the rare old colors. The Master's precious dyes? MOTHER'S LOVE. 147 I must haste to the fount of beauty, Must pleadingly kneel at His feet. And crave, 'mid His wiser scholars. The humblest pupil's seat. " Then, hand and heart together, Some grace shall add each day ; Thus, thus, shall her face grow lustrous With beauty that cannot decay. My darling ! God guide my pencil. And grant me the vision to see In the light of His love, without blemish or stain, In the coming eternity. " Then the mother awoke from her day-dream, Her face grew bright again, And I knew her faith was strengthened By more than angel's ken. Her fingers flew the faster, As she sang a soft, low song ; It seemed like a prayer for the child so fair. As it thrilled the air along. 148 MOTHER'S LOVE, AN INDIAN MOTHER'S LOVE. OS-HE-OUH-MAI, the wife of Little Wolf, one of the Iowa Indians, died, while at Paris, of an affection of the lungs, brought on by grief for the death of her young child in London. Her husband was unremitting in his endeavors to console and restore her to the love of life ; but she constantly replied : " No, no ; my four children recall me. I see them by the side of the Great Spirit. They stretch out their arms to me. and are astonished that I do not join them." No ! no ! I must depart From earth's pleasant scenes, for they but wake Those thrilling memories of the lost which shake The life-sands from my heart. Why do ye bid me stay ? Should the rose linger when the young buds die. Or the tree flourish when the branches lie Stricken by sad decay ? Doth not the parent dove, When her young nurslings leave their lowly home And soar on joyous wings to heaven's blue dome. Fly the deserted grave ? TEE INDIAN MOTHER. MOTHER'S LOVE. 149 Why, then, should I remain? Have I not seen my sweet-voiced warblers soar So far away that Love's fond wiles no more May lure them back again? They cannot come to me ; But I may go to them — and, as the flower Awaits the dewy eve, I wait the hour That sets my spirit free. Hark! heard ye not a sound Sweeter than wild-bird's note or minstrel's lay? I know that music v/ell, for night and day I hear it echoing round. It is the tuneful chime Of spirit voices ; — 'tis my infant band Calling the mourner from this darkened land To Joy's unclouded clime. My beautiful, my blest! I see them there, by the Great Spirit's throne ; I50 MOTHER'S LOVE. With winning words and fond beseeching tone They woo me to my rest. They chide my long delay, And wonder that I linger from their home ; They stretch their loving arms to bid me come — • Now, would ye have me stay? — Heavenly Recognition. MO THER 'S LOVE, 15 1 EXPERIENCE. A LITTLE dreaming, such as mothers know; A little lingering over dainty things; A happy heart, wherein love all aglow Stirs like a bird at dawn that wakes and sings. And that is all. A little clasping to her yearning breast; A little musing over future years; A heart that prays, " Dear Lord, thou knowest best, But spare my flower life's bitterest rain of tears," — And that is all. A little spirit speeding through the night; A little home grown lonely, dark and chill; A sad heart, groping blindly for the Hght; A little snow-clad grave beneath the hill; And that is all. A little gathering of life's broken thread; A little patience keeping back the tears; A heart that sings, " Thy darling is not dead, God keeps her safe through His eternal years," — And that is all. 152 MOTHER'S LOVE, A MOTHER'S CARES. T DO not think that I could bear My daily work of woman's care If it were not for this, That Jesus seemeth always near, Unseen, but whispering in my ear Some tender word of love and cheer, To fill my soul with bliss I There are so many trivial cares That no one knows and no one shares, Too small for me to tell; Things e'en my husband cannot see; Nor his dear love uplift from me Each hour's unnamed perplexity, That mothers know so well. The failure of some household scheme, The ending of some pleasant dream. Deep hidden in my breast. MO THER 'S LOVE. 153 The weariness of children's noise, The yearning for that subtle poise That turneth duties into joys, And giveth inner rest. These secret things, however small. Are known to Jesus, each and all, And this thought brings me peace. I do not need to say one word ; He knows what thought my heart hath stirred And by divine caress my Lord Makes all its throbbing cease. And then upon his loving breast My weary head is laid at rest In speechless ecstasy! Until it seemeth all in vain That care, fatigue, or mortal pain Should hope to drive me forth again From such felicity I 154 MO THER 'S LOVE, PAPA'S LETTER. (A widow's story.) T WAS sitting in my study, Writing letters, when I heard, " Please, dear mamma, Mary told me Mamma mustn't be disturbed. " But Ts so tired of the kitty, Want some ozzer fing to do, Witing letters, is 'ou, mamma? Tan't I wite a letter too? " " Not now, darling, mamma's busy; Run and play with kitty now.'* " No, no, mamma, me wite a letter! Tan if 'ou will show me how. " I would paint my darling's portrait As his sweet eyes searched my face Hair of gold and eyes of azure, Form of childish witching grace. MO THER 'S LO VE. 155 But the ea^er face was clouded, As I slowly shook my head, Till I said, " I'll make a letter Of you, darhng boy, instead." So I parted back the tresses From his forehead high and white, And a postage stamp I pasted *Mid its waves of golden light. Then said I, " Now little letter, Go away and bear good news;" And I smiled as down the staircase. Clattered loud the little shoes. Leaving me, the darling hurried Down to Mary in his glee, — " Mamma's witing lots of letters ; I's a letter, Mary, — see ! " No one heard the little prattle As once more he climbed the stair. Reaching his little cap and tippet, Standing on Ihe entry stair. 156 MOTHER'S LOVE. No one heard the front door open, No one saw the golden hair, As it floated o'er his shoulders In the crisp October air. Down the street the baby hastened Till he reached the office door, " Ts a letter, Mr. Postman, Is there room for more ? " 'Cause dis letter, doin' to papa ; Papa lives with God, 'ou know. Mamma sent me for a letter ; Does 'ou fink 'at I tan do ? " But the clerk in wonder answered, " Not to-day, my little man." " Den I'll find anover office, 'Cause I must go if I tan. " Fain the clerk would have detained him. But the pleading face was gone. And the little feet were hastening—- As the busy crowd swept on. MOTHER'S LOVE, . 157 Suddenly the crowd was parted, People fled to left and right As a pair of maddened horses, At the moment dashed in sight. No one saw the baby figure — No one saw the golden hair, Till a voice of frightened sweetness Rang out on the autumn air, Twas too late — a moment only Stood the beauteous vision there, Then the little face lay lifeless. Covered o'er with golden hair. Reverently they raised my darling, Brushed away the curls of gold, Saw the stamp upon the forehead, Growing now so icy cold. Not a mark the face disfigured. Showing where a hoof had trod; But the little life was ended — " Papa's letter " was with God. 1S8 - MOTHER'S LOVE, TO MY MOTHER. — ^. p. Willis. MOTHERS dear mother! the feelings nurst, As I hung at thy bosom, clung round thee first, 'Twas the earhest link in love's warm chain — 'Tis the only one that will long remain ; And, as year by year, and day by day. Some friend still trusted drops away. Mother ! dear mother ! oh^ dost thou see How the shortened chain brings me nearer thee? — Early Poems 'Tis midnight the lone mountains on — The east is flecked with cloudy bars, And gliding through them one by one, The moon walks up her path of stars — The light upon her placid brow Received from fountains unseen now. And happiness is mine to-night, Thus springing from an unseen fount, And breast and brain are warm with light. With midnight round me on the mount — MO THER 'S LOVE. 159 Its rays, like thine, fair Dian flow From far that Western star below. Dear mother! in thy love I live ; The life thou gav'st flows yet from thee — And sun-like, thou hast power to give Life to the earth, air, sea, for me! Though wandering, as this moon above, I'm dark without thy constant love. \ MOTHER'S first ministration for her infant is to enter, as it were, the valley of the shadow of death, and win its life at the peril of her own. How different must an affection thus founded be from all others ! — Mrs. Sigourney . ATO language can express the power, and beauty, and heroism, and majesty of a mother's love. It shrinks not where man cowers; and grows stronger where man faints, and over the wastes of worldly fort- unes sends the radiance of its quenchless fidelity like a star in heaven. — Chapin, l6o MO THER 'S LOVE. THE CONVICT. These lines were written by a convict in the Ohio penitentiary. T'VE wandered far from thee, mother, Far from my happy home ; I've left the land that gave me birth, In other climes to roam ; And time, since then, has rolled its years And marked them on my brow ; Yet, I have often thought of thee — Fm thinking of thee now. I'm thinking on the day, mother, When, at my tender side. You watch'd the dawning of my youth, And kissed me in your pride : Then brightly was my heart lit up With hopes of future joy. While your bright fancy honors wove To deck thy darling boy. MO THER 'S LOVE. l6l Fm thinking of the day, mother, When with such anxious care, You lifted up your heart to heaven — Your hope, your trust, was there : Fond memory brings thy parting words, While tears roll'd down your cheek ; Thy long, last, loving look told more Than ever words could speak. Fm far away from thee, mother, No friend is near me now, To soothe me with a tender word Or cool my burning brow ; The dearest ties affection wove Are all now torn from me ; They left me when the trouble came ; They did not love like thee. Fm lonely and forsaken now, Unpitied and unblest : Yet still I would not have thee know How sorely I'm distressed. 1 62 MOTHER 'S LOVE. I know you would not chide, mother, You would not give me blame ; But soothe me with your tender words, And bid me hope again. I would not have thee know, mother, How brightest hopes decay ; The tempter with his baleful cup Has dash'd them all away ; And shame has left its venom sting, To rack with anguish wild — Yet still I would not have thee know The sorrows of thy child. Oh! I have wander'd far, mother, Since I deserted thee, And left thy trusting heart to break Beyond the deep, blue sea. O! mother, still I love thee well, And long to hear thee speak, And feel again thy balmy breath Upon my careworn cheek. MO THER 'S LOVE. 163 But, ah! there is a thought, mother, Pervades my beating breast, That thy freed spirit may have flown To its eternal rest ; And while I wipe the tear away, There whispers in my ear A voice that speaks of heaven and thee, And bids me seek thee there. A MOTHER'S love, in a degree, sanctifies the most worthless offspring. — Hosca Ballou. A MOTHER is a mother still. The holiest thing alive. — Coleridge. \ ND if disgrace settle upon his name, she will still love and cherish him in spite of his disgrace ; and if all the world beside cast him off, she will be all the world to him. — Was/im^ton Irving, i64 MO THER 'S LOVE. RICH, THOUGH POOR. — A. D. F. Randolph, IVTO rood of land in all the earth, No ship upon the sea, No treasures rare of gold or gems Do any keep for me : As ^^esterday I worked for bread, So must I toil to-day! Yet some are not so rich as I, Nor I so poor as they. On yonder tree the sunlight falls, The robins on the bough ; Still I can hear a merrier note Than he is warbling now ; He's but an Arab of the sky. And never lingers long ; But o'erruns the livelong year With music and with song. Come gather round me, merry ones, And here as I sit down. MOTHER'S LOVE. 165 With shouts of laughter on me place A mimic regal crown. Say, childless king, would I accept Your armies and domain, Or e'en your crown, and never feel These little hands again ? There's more of honor in thefr touch, And blessing unto me, Than kingdom unto kingdom joined, Or navies on the sea ; So greater gifts by them are brought Than Sheba's queen did bring To him who at Jerusalem Was born to be a king. Look at my crown, and then at yours, Look in my heart and thine ; How do our jewels now com.pare — The earthly and divine ? Hold up your diamonds to the light, Emerald and amethyst ; i66 MOTHER'S LOVE, They're to those love-lit eyes — Those lips so often kissed ! " O noblest Roman of them all ; " That mother good and wise, Who pointed to her little ones, The jewels of her eyes ; Four sparkle in my own to-day, Two deck a sinless brow ; How great my riches at the thought Of those in glory now. And still no rood of all the earth. No ship upon the sea, No treasure rare of gold or gems. Are safely kept for me ; Yet I am rich — myself a king. And here is my domain ! Which only God shall take away To give me back again. MOTHER'S LOVE, 167 MOTHER'S WEE MAN. 'T^WO violet eyes, intent and wise, This great world view with a grave surprise; Gaze at it, master it, rule, if you can! That is the problem — mother's wee man. Two sensitive ears, with unknown fears. Turn at each sound the darling hears; 'Tis a strange great world, but love is its plan, There is no danger — mother's wee man. Each tiny pink fist, fit but to be kissed. Waves hither and thither, wherever they list; The right 'gainst the wrong, strike a blow when you can! That is the battle — mother's wee man. Two delicate feet, all dimpled and sweet, To walk this rough earth seem strangely unmeet; Yet tread the path boldly, it is but a span. Life's little crossing — mother's wee man. i68 MO THER 'S LOVE, THE THREE LITTLE CHAIRS. T^HEY sat alone by the bright wood fire, The gray-haired dame and the aged sire, Dreaming of the days gone by ; The tear-drops fell on each wrinkled cheek, They both had thoughts they could not speak, And each heart uttered a sigh. For their sad and tearful eyes descried Three little chairs placed side by side Against the sitting-room wall ; Old-fashioned enough as there they stood, Their seat of flag and their frames of wood, With their backs so straight and tall. Then the sire shook his silvery head, And with trembling voice, he gently said, " Mother, these empty chairs! They bring us such sad thoughts to-night; MOTHER'S LOVE. 169 We'll put them forever out of sight In the small, dark room up-stairs." But she answered, " Father, no; not yet; For I look at them and I forget That the children are away ; The boys come back, and our Mary, too, With her apron on of checkered blue, And sit there every day. " Johnny still whittles a ship's tall masts, And Willie his laden bullets casts. While Mary her patchwork sews ; At evening the three child-like prayers Go up to God from these little chairs So softly that no one knows. " Johnny comes back from the billow deep ; WiUie wakes up from the battle-field sleep To say '■ good-night ' to me ; Mary's a wife and a mother no more, I70 MOTHER'S LOVE, But a tired child whose playtime is o*er, And comes to rest at my knee. " So let them stand there, though empty now, And every time when alone we bow At the Father's throne to pray, We'll ask to meet the children above In Qui* Savior's home of rest and love, Where no child goeth away." A MOTHER would rather die than see her child ruined and disgraced ; and could mother-love save from the ways of sin, there would be but few trav- elers on the road that leads down to death. MOTHER'S LOVE. 171 MOTHER'S WAY. /^FT within our little cottage, As the shadows gently fall, While the sunlight touches softly One sweet face upon the wall, Do we gather close together, And in hushed and tender tone, Ask each other's full forgiveness For the wrong that each has done ; Should you wonder at this custom At the ending of the day, Eye and voice would quickly answer, " It was once our mother's way." If our home be bright and cheery, If it hold a welcome true. Opening wide its doors of greeting To the many — not the few ; If we share our Father's bounty With the needy, day by day. 172 MOTHER'S LOVE, *Tis because our hearts remember This was ever mother's way. Sometimes when our hearts grow weary Or our task seems very long ; When our burdens look too heavy, And we deem the right all wrong. Then we gain a new, fresh courage, As we rise to proudly say ; " Let us do our duty bravely. This was our dear mother's way. " Thus we keep her memory precious, While we never cease to pray, That at last when lengthening shadows Mark the evening of life's day, They may find us waiting calmly To go home our mother's way. MOTHER'S LOVE. 173 TWO GRAVES. TJEYOND the gate are two small graves, Just seen in this twilight hour ; One marked by a costly marble shaft, The other by a single flower. *Neath one, in a casket satin-lined, Is a little baby face, Round which the ringlets like pale spun-gold. Cluster thick 'mid the flowers and lace. In the other, in a coffin plainly made, Wrapped up in spotless white. Is another child; a precious pearl Hid away from a mother's sight. And now each day, in the twilight dim, Together the mothers weep ; Far apart in life — from mansion to cot — At the grave's dark door they meet. 174 MOTHER'S LOVE. All o'er this earth, be we rich or poor, The mother's love is the same ; When the angel of death takes our darlings away, 'Tis alike to us all — the oain. 1\ MOTHERS often die of grief for their children. Long watching by the side of the suffering one exhausts the energies and breaks the heart; and when the child dies, she soon follows, and side by side the mother and child sleep in the silent grave. MOTHER'S LOVE. 175 HOME INFLUENCES n^HERE is music in the word home. To the old it brings a bewitching strain from the harp of mem- ory ; to the young it is a reminder of all that is near and dear to them. Among the many songs we are wont to listen to, there is not one more cherished than the touching melody of ** Home, Sweet Home." Will you go back with me a few years, dear reader, in the history of the past, and traverse in imagination the gay streets and gilded salons of Paris, that once bright center of the world's follies and pleasures ? Pass- ing through its splendid thoroughfares is one (an En- glishman) who has left his home and native land to view the splendors and enjoy the pleasures of a foreign country. He has beheld with delight, its paintings, its sculpture, and the grand yet graceful proportions of its buildings, and has yielded to the spell of the sweetest music. Yet, in the midst of his keenest happiness, when he was re- joicing most over the privileges he possessed, tempta- tions assailed him. Sin was presented to him in one of its most bewitching garbs. He drank wildly and deeply of the intoxicating cup, and his draught brought mad- 176 MOTHER'S LOVE, ness. Reason was overwhelmed, and he rushed out, all his scruples overcome, careless of what he did or how deeply he became immersed in the hitherto un- known sea of guilt. The cool night air lifted the damp locks from his heat- ed brow, and swept with soothing touch over his flushed cheeks. Walking on, calmer, but no less determined, strains of music from a distance met his ear. Following in the direction the sound indicated, he at length distin- guished the words and air. The song was well remem- bered. It was "Home, Sweet Home." Clear and sweet the voice of some English singer rose and fell on the air, in the soft cadences of that beloved melody. Motionless the wanderer listened till the last note floated away and he could hear nothing but the cease- less murmur of a great city. Then he turned slowly, with no feeling that his manhood was shamed by the tear which fell as a bright evidence of the power of song. The demon that dwells in the wine had fled ; and reason once more asserted her right to control. As the soft strains of " Sweet Home " had floated to his ear, memory brought up before him his own " sweet home. " He saw his gentle mother, and heard her speak, while MOTHER'S LOVE. 177 honest pride beamed from her eye, of her son, in whose nobleness and honor she could always trust ; and his heart smote him as he thought how little he deserved such confidence. He remembered her last words of love and counsel, and the tearful farewell of all those dear ones who gladdened that far-away home with their presence. Well he knew their pride in his integrity, and the tide of remorse swept over his spirit as he felt what their sorrow would be, could they have seen him an hour before. Subdued and repentant, he retraced his steps, and with this vow never to taste of the terri- ble draught that could so excite him to madness, was mingled a deep sense of thankfulness for his escape from further degradation. The influence of home had protected him, though the sea rolled between. None can tell how often the commission of crime is prevented by such memories. If, then, the spell of home is so powerful, how important it is to make it pleasant and lovable! Many a time a cheerful home and smiling face does more to make good men and women than all the learning and eloquence that can be used. It has been said that the sweetest words in our language are " Mother, Home and Heaven ; " and one might almost say the word home included them all ; 178 MOTHER'S LOVE. for who can think of home without remembering the gentle mother who sanctified it by her presence ? And is not home the dearest name for heaven ? We think of that better land as a home where brightness will never end in night. Oh, then, may our homes on earth be the centers of all our joys ; may they be as green spots in the desert, to which we can retire when weary of the cares and perplexities of life, and drink the clear waters of a love which we know to be sincere and always unfailing. — Saturday Evening Post. MOTHER'S LOVE. 179 THE ROAD IS SO LONESOME BETWEEN. — Mary Riley Smith. TTTHEN the crickets chirp in the evening, And the stars flash out in the sky, I sit in my lonely door-way And watch the children go by ; I look at their fresh young faces, And hark to each merry word ; For, to me, a child's own language Is the sweetest e'er was heard. And so I sit in my door-way, In the hour that I love the best. And think, as I see them passing, My child will come with the rest ; Think, when I hear the clicking Of the little garden gate. My darling's hand is upon it — O, why has she come so late ? But the days have been slowly weaving Their warp of toil in my life ; l8o MOTHER'S LOVE. The weeks have rolled on me their burden Of waiting and patience and strife ; The flowers that came with the summer Have finished their errand so sweet, And autumn is dropping her harvests Mellow and ripe at my feet. And yet my little girl comes not, And I think she has missed her way, And strayed from this cold, dark country To one of perpetual day. I think that the angels have found her. And, loving her better than we. Have begged the Good Father to keep her, Right on through eternity. Perhaps. But I long to enfold her, To tangle my hand in her hair. To feast my starved mouth on her kisses, To hear her light foot on the stair. I am but a poor, selfish mother, And mother-hearts starve, though they know MOTHER'S LOVE. i8i Their children are drinking the nectar From lilies in heaven that blow. Some day I am sure I shall find her, — But the road is so lonesome between, My spirit grows sick and impatient For a glimpse of the pastures so green. Till then I shall sit in the door-way, In the hour that my heart loves best, And think when the children pass homeward, My child will come with the rest. I T is the mother who molds the character and fixes the destiny of the child i82 MOTHER'S LOVE, THE OLD SONG. /^H, sing again that dear old strain My mother sang to me, When holy rays of earlier days Gleamed through our threshold tree! The sunset low, in purple glow, Crept o'er the sanded sill ; She lingered there, in that old chair — Mother! I see thee still. The low-eaved roof, with mossy woof, And creepers trailing o'er ; The story long, the dear old song, Beside that oaken door ; The eyes that shone, the melting tone Of that sweet voice still come, With silvered hair and plaintive prayer — Blest memories of my home I Long years have fled; the vines are dead And withered that old tree. MOTHER'S LOVE, 183 And never more, beside thai door, Will mother sing to me, But golden gleams of hallowed themes Will linger to the last; I cherish still, with sacred thrill, The ashes of the past. Then sing again that dear old strain My mother sang to me. When holy rays of earlier days Gleamed through our thresnold tree. l84 MOTHER'S LOVE. THE SWEETEST NAME. — Caleb Dunn. n^HE name of mother! sweetest name That ever fell on mortal ear! The love of mother! Mightiest love Which Heaven permits to flourish here. Dissect a mother's heart and see The properties it doth contain — What pearls of love, what gems of hope — A mother's heart beats not in vain. The words of mother! when they flew In love's true rhetoric from her lips, The meteor stars of sin and shame Are lost amid a bright eclipse; And when we walk the glittering path Wherein temptations oft we see, Oh, then we realize how strong The power of mother's love can be. A mother's love! it never wanes; What if her boy an ingrate seems? MOTHER'S LOVE. 185 The beauty of that wondrous love Around the thankless offspring beams; Though in the path of shame he walks, Though crime hath driven him to the bowl, A mother's care can yet avail — A mother's prayer may win his soul. What heart like mother's can forgive The oft repeated wrongs of youth ? What hand like hers can lead us back From sin to innocence and truth ? Oh, name of mother! sweetest name That ever fell on mortal ear! Oh, love of mother! mightiest love That Heaven allows to flourish here! TTfHEN a mother forgives, she kisses the offense into everlasting forgetfulness. l86 MOTHER'S LOVE. WE SHALL SLEEP, BUT NOT FOREVER. TTTHEN we see a precious blossom That we tended with such care. Rudely taken from our bosom, How our aching hearts despair! Round its little grave we linger, Till the setting sun is low, Feeling all our hopes have perished With the flower we cherished so. We shall sleep, but not forever, There will be a glorious dawn; We shall meet to part, no never, On the resurrection morn! MO THER 'S LO VE, 187 WOMAN'S INFLUENCE. —Catherine E. Beecher. TTfOMAN has been but little aware of the high in- citement that should stimulate to the cultivation of her noblest powers. The world is no longer to be governed hy physical force, but by the infltience which mind exerts over mind. How are the great springs of action in the political world put in motion? Often by the secret workings of a single mind, that in retirement plans its schemes, and comes forth to execute them only by presenting motives of prejudice, passion, self-inter- est or pride, to operate on other minds. Now, the world is chiefly governed by motives that men are ashamed to own. When do we find mankind acknowledging that their efforts in political life are the offspring of pride and the desire of self-aggrandize- ment, and yet who hesitates to believe that this it true? But there is a class of motives that men are not only willing but proud to own. Man does not willingly yield to force; he is ashamed to own he can yield to fear; he will not acknowledge his motives of pride. i88 MOTHER'S LOVE, prejudice or passion. But none are unwilling to own they can be governed by reasoUy even the worst will boast of being regulated by consciencey and where is the person who is ashamed to own the influence of the kind and generous emotions of the heart? Here, then, is the only proper field for- the ambition of our sex. Woman, in all her relations, is bound to ''honor and obey " those on whom she depends for protection and support, nor does the truly feminine mind desire to ex- ceed this limitation of heaven. But where the dictates of authority may ever control, the voice of reason and affection may ever convince and persuade; and while others govern by motives that mankind are ashamed to own, the dominion of woman may be based on influ- ences that the heart is proud to acknowledge. And if it is indeed the truth that reason and con- science guide to the only path of happiness, and if affection will gain a hold on these powerful principles which can be attained in no other way, what high and holy motives are presented to woman for cultivating her highest powers! The development of the respond- ing fascinations of a purified imagination, the charms MOTHER'S LOVE. 189 of a cultivated taste, the quick perceptions of an active mind,' the power of exhibiting truth and reason by perspicuous and animated conversation and writing, all these can be employed by woman as well as by man. And with these attainable faculties for gaining influ- ence, woman has already received from the hand of her Maker those warm affections and quick susceptibil- ities which can most surely gain the empire of the heart. Woman has never waked to her highest destinies and holiest hopes. She has yet to learn the purifying and blessed influence she may gain and maintain over the intellect and affections of the human mind. Though she may not teach from the portico, nor thun- der from the forum, in her secret retirements she may form and send forth the sages that shall govern and renovate the world. Though she may not gird herself for bloody conflict, nor sound the trumpet of war, she may enwrap herself in the panoply of heaven, and send the thrill of benevolence through a thousand youthful hearts. Though she may not enter the list in legal collision, nor sharpen her intellect amid the pas- I90 MOTHER'S LOVE. ' sions and conflicts of men, she may teach the law of kindness, and hush up the discords and conflicts of Hfe. Though she may not be clothed as the ambassador of heaven, nor minister at the altar of God, as a secret angel of mercy she may teach His will, and cause to ascend the humble, but most accepted sacrifice. r\ WONDERFUL power! how little understood,- Entrusted to the mother's mind alone, To fashion genius, form the soul for good, Inspire a West or train a Washington! T^VEN He, that died for us upon the cross, in the last hour, in the unutterable agony of death, was mindful of his mother, as if to teach us that this holy love should be our last worldly thought, the last point of earth from which the soul should take its flight for heaven. — Longfellow. A Kiss from my Mother made me a painter. — Benjamin West. MOTHER'S LOVE, 191 "FORGET ME NOT." T^ORGET me not! in accents mild My mother says, beloved child Forget me not, when far away Amidst a thoughtless world you stray ; Forget me not, when fools would win Your footsteps to the paths of sin ; Forget me not when urged to wrong By passions and temptations strong ; Forget me not, when pleasure's snare Would lead you from the house of prayer. Forget me not, in feeble age, But let me then your thoughts engage, And think, my child, how fondly I Watched o'er your helpless infancy ; Forget me not when death shall close These eyelids in their last repose, And evening breezes softly wave The grass upon thy mother's grave : — Oh! then, whate'er thy age and lot May be, my child, FORGET ME NOT! 192 MOTHER'S LOVE. A MOTHER'S FAITH. — Anonymous. QHE loved you when the sunny light Of bliss was on your brow ; That bliss was sunk in sorrow's night, And yet she loves you now. She loved you when your joyous tone Taught every heart to thrill : The sweetness of that tongue is gone, And yet she loves you still. She loved you when you proudly stept. The gayest of the gay! That pride the blight of time has swept Unhke her love, away. She loved you when your home and heart Of fortune's smile could boast! She saw that smile decay — depart — And then she loved you most. MOTHER'S LOVE. 193 A WORLD. npHERE is a world where no storms intrude, a haven of safety against the tempests of life. A little world of joy and love, of innocence and tranquility. Suspicions are not there, nor jealousies, nor falsehood with her double tongue, nor the venom of slander. Peace embraces it with outspread wings. Plenty broodeth there. When a man entereth it, he forget- eth his sorrows, and cares, and disappointments ; he openeth his heart to confidence, and to pleasure not mingled with remorse. This world is the well-ordered home of a virtuous and amiable woman. A MOTHER'S love is indeed the golden link that binds youth to age ; and he is still but a child, however time may have furrowed his cheek, or silvered his brow, who can yet recall, with a softened heart, the fond devotion, or the gentle chidings, of the best friend that God ever gives us. — Bovee. 194 MOTHER'S LOVE. THE MOTHER'S HOPE. — Laura Blanchard. TS there, where the winds are singing In the happy summer-time, Where the raptured air is ringing With earth's music heavenward springing, Forest chirp and village chime ; Is there, of the sounds that float Minglingly, a single note Half so sweet, and clear, and wild, As the laughter of a child ? Listen, and be now delighted. Morn hath touched her golden strings, Earth and sky their vows have plighted, Life and light are reunited, Amid countless carolings ; Yet, delicious as they are, There's a sound that's sweeter far — One that makes the heart rejoice More than all — the human voice ! MOTHER'S LOVE. 195 Organ finer, deeper, clearer, Though it be a stranger's tone, Than the winds and waters dearer. More enchanting to the hearer, For it answereth his own. But of all its witching words. Sweeter than the songs of birds, Those are sweetest, bubbling wild Through the laughter of a child. Harmonies from time-touched towers, Haunted strains from rivulets. Hum of bees among the flowers, Rustling leaves and silver showers — These ere long the ear forgets ; But in mine there is a sound Ringing on the whole year round ; Heart-deep laughter that I heard, Ere my child could speak a word. Ah! 'twas heard by ear far purer, Fondlier formed to catch the strain — 196 MOTHER'S LOVE. Ear of one whose love is surer ; Hers, the mother, the endurer Of the deepest share of pain ; Hers the deepest bliss to treasure Memories of that cry of pleasure ; Hers to hoard, a lifetime after, Echoes of that infant laughter. Yes, a mother's large affection Hears, with a mysterious sense, Breathings that evade detection, Whispers faint, and fine inflection, Thrill in her with power intense. Childhood's honey 'd tones untaught Heareth she, in loving thought, Tones that never thence depart, For she listens — with her heart! T TNHAPPY is the man for whom his own mother has not made all other mothers venerable. — Rich- ter. MOTHER'S LOVE. 197 THE OLD HOUSE IN THE MEADOW. — Louise Chandler Moulton. TT stands in a sunny meadow, The house so mossy and brown, With its cumbrous old stone chimneys, And the gray roof sloping down. The trees fold their green arms round it, The trees, a century old, And the winds go chanting through them, And the sunbeams drop their gold. The cowslips spring in the marshes, And the roses bloom on the hill. And beside the brook on the pastures, The herds go feeding at will. The children have gone and left them. They sit in the sun alone. And the old wife's tears are falling. As she harks to the well-known tone 19S MOTHER'S LOVE. That won her heart in childhood, That has soothed her in many a care, And praises her now for the brightness Her old face used to wear. She thinks again of her bridal — How, dressed in her robe of white, She stood by her gay young lover. In the morning's rosy light. Oh, the morning is rosy as ever, But the rose from her cheek is fled, And the sunshine still is golden, But it falls on a silvered head. And the girlhood dreams, once vanished. Come back in her winter-time. Till her feeble pulses tremble With the thrill of spring-time's prime. And looking forth from the window. She thinks how the trees have grown, Since clad in her bridal whiteness, She crossed the old door-stone. MOTHER'S LOVE. I99 Though dimmed her eye's bright azure, And dimmed her hair's young gold, The love in her girlhood plighted Has never grown dim nor old. They sat in peace in the sunshine, Till the day was almost done, And then, at its close, an angel Stole over the threshold stone. He folded their hands together — He touched their eyelids with balm, And their last breath floated upward, Like the close of a solemn psalm. Like a bridal pair they traversed The unseen, mystical road That leads to the beautiful city, " Whose builder and maker is God.** Perhaps in that miracle country They will give her lost youth back, And the flowers of a vanished spring-time Will bloom in the spirit's track. 2GO MOTHER'S LOVE. One draught from the living waters Shall call back his manhood's prime. And eternal years shall measure The love that outlived time. But the shapes that they left behind them, The wrinkles and silver hair, Made holy to us by the kisses The angel had printed there, We will hide away 'neath the willows, When the day is low in the west, Where the sunbeams cannot find them. Nor the winds disturb their rest. And we'll suffer no tell-tale tombstone, With its age and date to rise O'er the two who are old no longer In the Father's House in the skies. nPHE mother's heart is the child's school-room. Beecher. MOTHER'S LOVM. aoi ON THE THRESHOLD. A MOTHER TO HER DAUGHTER LEAVING HOME. — Anonymous. OTANDING on the threshold, With her waking heart and mind, Standing on the threshold, With her childhood left behind ; The woman softness blending With a look of sweet surprise For life and all its marvels That lights the clear blue eyes. Standing on the threshold. With light foot and fearless hand, As the young knight by his armor In minister nave might stand ; The fresh red lip just touching Youth's ruddy, rapturous wine, The eager heart all brave, pure hope, Oh, happy child of mine! 202 MOTHER'S LOVE. I could guard the helpless infant That nestled in my arms ; I could save the prattler's golden head From petty baby harms ; I could brighten childhood's gladness, And comfort childhood's tears, But I cannot cross the threshold With the step of riper years. For hopes, and joys, and maiden dreams Are waiting for her there, Where girlhood's fancies bud and bloom In April's golden air ; And passionate love, and passionate grief, And passionate gladness lie Among the crimson flowers that spring As youth goes fluttering by. Ah! on those rosy pathways Is no place for sobered feet ; My tired eyes have naught of strength Such fervid glow to meet ; MOTHER'S LOVE. 203 My voice is all too sad to sound Amid the joyous notes Of the music that through charmed air For opening girlhood floats. Yet thorns amid the leaves may lurk, And thunder-clouds may lower, And death, or change, or falsehood blight The jasmine in the bower. May God avert the woe, my child ; But, oh! should tempest come, Remember by the threshold waits The patient love of home. TTfHAT arts for a woman? To hold on her knees Both darlings! to feel all their arms round her throat Cling, strangle a little! To sew by degrees, And 'broider the long clothes and neat little coat! To dream and to dote. "^Mrs, Browning's *' Mother and Poet, ''^ 204 MOTHER'S LOVE, MOTHER, THE STAR OF MY HOME. — Eliza Cook. T REMEMBER the days when my spirit would turn From the fairest of scenes and the sweetest of song, When the hearth of the stranger seemed coldly to burn, And the moments of pleasure for me were too long ; For one name and one form shone in glory and light, And lured back from all that might tempt me to roam. The festal was joyous, but was not so bright As the smile of a mother, the star of my home. I remember the days when the tear filled my eye, And the heaving sob wildly disturbed my young breast ; But the hand of that loved one the lashes would dry, And her soothing voice lull my chafed bosom to rest. The sharpest of pain and the saddest of woes. The darkest, the deepest of shadows might come ; MOTHER'S LOVE, 205 But now let me rove the wide world as I may, There's no form to arise as a magnet for me ; I can rest amid strangers, and laugh with the gay — Content with the pathway where'er it may be — Let sorrow or pain fling their gloomiest cloud, There's no haven to shelter, no beacon to save, For the rays that e'er led me are quenched by the shroud. And the star of my home has gone down in the grave. B UT one thing on earth is better than a wife, — that is a mother. — Leopold Schcefer, QUEEN OF THE WORLD. 'T^HE mother in her office, holds the key Of the soul; and she it is who stamps the coin Of character, and makes the being who would be a savage But for her gentle cares, a Christian man ; Then crown her queen of the world. 2o6 MO THER 'S LOVE, MEMORIES OF THE OLD KITCHEN. ^Mrs. S. P. Snow. T^AR back in my musings my thoughts have been cast To the cot where the hours of my childhood were passed. I loved all its rooms, to the pantry and hall, But that blessed old kitchen was dearer than all. Its chairs and its table none brighter could be, For all its surroundings were sacred to me, To the nail in the ceiling, the latch on the door ; And I loved every knot of that old kitchen floor. I remember the fireplace with mouth high and wide, The old-fashioned oven that stood by its side, Out of which, each thanksgiving, came puddings and pies, That fairly bewildered and dazzled our eyes ; And then, too, Saint Nicholas, slyly and still. Came down every Christm-as, our stockings to fill ; But the dearest of memories I've laid up in store, Is the mother that trod that old kitchen floor. MOTHER'S LOVE. 207 Day in and day out, from morning till night, Her footsteps were busy, her heart always light ; For it seemed to me then that she knew not a care. The smile was so gentle her face used to wear. I remember with pleasure what joy filled our eyes When she told us the stories that children so prize ; They were new every night, though we'd heard them before From her lips, at the wheel on the old kitchen floor. I remember the window where mornings Fd run As soon as the day break, to watch for the sun : And I thought, when my head scarcely reached to the sill, That it slept through the night on the trees on the hill, And the small tract of ground that my eyes there could view Was all of the world that my infancy knew ; Indeed, I cared not to know of it more. For a world in itself was that old kitchen floor. To-night those old visions come back at their will, But the wheel and their music forever are still ; 2o8 MOTHER'S LOVE, The band is moth-eaten, the wheel laid away, And the fingers that turned it lie mold'ring in clay The hearthstone, so sacred, is just as 'twas then, And the voices of children ring out there again; The sun through the window looks in as of yore. But it sees stranger feet on the old kitchen floor. I ask not for honor, but this I could crave — That when the lips speaking are closed in the grave, My children will gather their's round at their side, And tell of the mother that long ago died : 'Twould be more enduring, far dearer to me Than inscription on marble or granite could be, To have them teli often, as I did of yore, Of the mother that trod the old kitchen floor. B Y the fireside still the light is shining, The children's arms around the parents' twining ; From love so sweet, O who would roam ? Be it ever so homely, home is home. — Dinah Muloch Craik, MOTHER'S LOVE. 209 THE OLD HOMESTEAD. — Anonymous A H! here it is, that dear old place, Unchanged through all the years ; How like some sweet, familiar face My childhood's home appears ; The grand old trees beside the door Still spread their branches wide ; The river wanders as of yore, With sweetly murmuring tide ; The distant hills look green and gay, The flowers are blooming wild, And everything looks glad to-day, As when I was a child. Regardless how the years have flown, Half wondering I stand ; I catch no fond endearing tone, I clasp no friendly hand ; 2IO MOTHER'S LOVE. I think my mother's smile to meet, I list my father's call, I pause to hear my brother's feet Come bounding through the hall ; But silence all around me reigns, A chill creeps through my heart — No trace of those I love remains, And tears unbidden start. What though the sunbeams fall as fair ; What though the budding flowers Still shed their fragrance on the air, Within life's golden hours ; The loving ones that cluster here These walls may not restore ; Voices that fill my youthful ear Will greet my soul no more ; And yet I quit the dear old place, With slow and lingering tread, As when we kiss a clay-cold face And leave it with the dead. MOTHER 'S LOVE. 2U MOTHERHOOD. — Beecher. FN the lowest and simplest forms of animal life it is the rule that the offspring have no relation to their parents, other than physical. There is no love, no recognition. The spawn of the fish covers the river and the fish knows nothing about it, and they are hatched and the fish don't know its offspring except to eat it up. As you ascend from the lower forms of parentage steadily there seems to be an increment in this direction, that the parent and the offspring have increasing relations one to the other. Take the birds — the fowls of the air and the fowls of the yard. There is very strong parental affection, but it is very narrow and simple. The hen that clucks round my door every day with her brood of fifteen chickens, will quarrel and fight as bravely as if she were a lioness if you attack them openly ; but if you go in the night and take one from her and kill it or give it away, she don't miss it in the morning ; and if in the night you go quietly and abstract another, she doesn't know she is a bereaved mother. And so you may reduce her to one chicken, 212 MOTHER'S LOVE. and she goes on acting as if she had control of the whole world. So that you see, while she has strong affection in one way, it is so small, so narrow, so unrecognizing, that one by one you can diminish her household and she doesn't grieve. She misses nothing. If you go further up you shall find that when you reach the mammals, or those that feed their young from their own bosom, a very strong development has taken place, bringing them nearer and nearer together. Not only is the lioness a lover of her whelp, but she is very sagacious about it. Go into the wood and take the cubs of a bear, and she will follow your footsteps far and near, and woe be to the man that has her young in his pouch if she overtakes him. She misses them, and mourns them if she can't find them. Take the calf away from the cow, and she goes lowing about day by day and v/eek by week sometimes. She not only loves it while it is present with her — she misses it as the bird does not miss its little one. The sphere is enlarged when you reach the human family. You begin to find then that the scope of parental affection is enriched in variety and immensely enlarged. Even in the lowest savage nations the mother's love is something that rises superior as an MOTHER'S LOVE. 213 angel in the midst of all the rude and course elements of life. And as the mind enlarges, so does the scope of parental affection and the imagination with which the mother engirts, as with bonds of light, the little infant. A civilized and a Christian woman! No poet, no phi- losopher, can tell what is the richness and fruitfulness and wonder of the imagination that hovers over a Christian woman at the cradle. To her the star of the East comes again to stand even where the young child lies. To her the wise men of the earth might well come bearing offerings and incense. To her again are renewed all the scenes of the sacred stable where the child lay. The cradle is her temple ; the babe is her divinity, and whatever reason can and whatever fancy can, when both of them are stimulated by profoundest love — whatever there is near or far, present or to come, that love is woman's. " Mary kept these things in her heart and pondered them. " The pondering of a mother, if it could be written — if there were an angelic reportorial hand to take the best thoughts and the sweetest fancies, and the life of a mother's heart could be written in those early brooding days, it would shine fit to be read in the libraries of the heavenly world itself. 214 MOTHER'S LOVE. A mother's love has all the stars of heaven shining at night down on it. Serving that little impotence, that little possibility of the future, she asks no other reward than the joy of service ; she asks nothing ; she can't free herself from it. It wins her by the whole strength of her nature from pleasure, from honor, from society, from all rest, from the glory of the earth ; outwardly, from all that has been treasured by the accumulated wisdom and refinements of the years. They are nothing to her. The sum total of human experience, if it could be put together in some shining bauble, would seem to her as darkness compared with the luminous joy with which she serves the young immortal — her king, her little prophet, her little priest, her little god! Human nature never comes so near the divine as when a royal woman pours out the full blood of her thought, and fancy, and love to the little unheeding, and to her as yet useless child. Where else is she so beautiful as when she sits in the center of this mystic circle, as when she sings to her babe or gazes silently as it feeds upon her bosom? The stars have nothing so bright, and the heavens scarcely anything more pure and more lovely, than the heavenly love service of a mother to her little one, helpless and unfashioned. MOTHER'S LOVE. 215 Look for one single moment upon the power of the cradle, for all this love and outflowing of the divinest feeling of human nature was not meant to be expended merely as a luxury for the maternal bosom — there is meaning in it. It is one of the sources of the greatest power that exists on earth. The power of the cradle is greater than the power of the throne, greater than royalty in its diffusion and in its capacity of use- fulness — ten thousand times greater. Make me mon- arch of the cradles, and I will give to whosoever will the monarchy of the kingdoms and of the throne. 2l6 MOTHER'S LOVE, HOME OF OUR CHILDHOOD. — Oliver Wendell Holmes. T TOME of our childhood! How affection clings And hovers round thee with her seraph wings! Dearer thy hills, though clad in autumn brown, Than fairest summits which the cedars crown ; Sweeter the fragrance of thy summer breeze, Than all Arabia breathes along the seas! The stranger's gale wafts home the exile's sigh, For the heart's temple is its own blue sky. A MOTHER'S heart, like primroses, opens most beau- tifully in the evening of life. Wt5i ^^Hl i! ■' .' t .' i •^(flotfie^f's ©Gaffi^^ MY MOTHER'S PRAYER. 4 ^ ^ l^c:F=fe=^- ^=ig-^ i::^-: ^ :^i=::s: 1. As I wandered 'round the homestead, Man - y a dear familiar 2. The' the house was held by strangers, All remained the same with 3. Quick I drew it from the rubbish, Covered o'er with dust so F^^=i- -^ >» -> -.'^ -> =^ =^-=^ -^—m- r f^--^ "25^" ~?~^- ^ ^ ^ ^ ^r-^~ ^ 1 -r-&r- ^-^- sz m «^ ^ «^ L. ^ L %J 1^ 1^ spot,Brought within my rec - ol-lec-tion, Scenes I'd seeming- ly for- in, Just as when a child I rambled, Up anddown,andoutaucl long: When, be-hold! I heard in fan-cy, Strains of one fa- mil-iar got, There, the orchard — meadow, yonder — Here the deep, old fashioned in. To the gar -ret dark as- cending, (Once a source of child -ish song, Oft - en sung by my dear mother, To me in that trun - die ^r-N- P^- -^^=^ nt. =^ :t^=f^ -»^^ - :a^=^: 3t=at well,With its old moss-covered bucket, Sent a thrill no tongue can tell, dread, )Peering thro' the mist -y cobwebs, Lo! I saw my trun - die bed. bed.[Omzif ] M. end'ng pp ^-^-^-N— a^— ^— <^- -*i — h J=5=1^ f==^ MzzSt^ "Hush,my dear .lie still and slumber, Ho - ly an - gels g-uard thy bed 3z& -K?- -m- ei a i I te=^ jgt=i!!L Ji?»=:feB: See page 233, LETTER FROM PHILIP PHILLIPS. TTTHEN Philip Phillips wrote giving permission to ^^ use " My Mother's Prayer," found on cage 233 of this book, he said : " You have my permission to use the hymn from * Song Life, as you request. " God bless the dear Christian mothers of our land. Mine is a sainted one long since gone to glory. " But I remember her prayers which have and aro still blessing me. ''Yours in faith and song, Philip Phillips." 2/^ 220 MOTHER'S DEATH. ONE BY ONE. nPHEY are gathering home from every land, One by one, As their weary feet touch the shining strand, One by one ; Their brows are encased in a golden crown And their travel-soiled garments are all laid down, And clothed in white raiment they rest on the mead Where the Lamb loveth his chosen to lead. One by one. Before they rest they pass through the strife. One by one ; Through the river of death they enter life, One by one. To some the waves of the river are still As they ford on their way to the heavenly hill ; To some the waters run darkly and wild, But all reach the home of the undefiled, One by one. o MOTHER'S DEATH. zzi We, too, shall come to the river-side, One by one ; We are nearer its waters each even-tide, One by one. We can hear the roar and the dash of the stream Ever and again through our life's deep dream ; Sometimes the waves all the banks o'erflow, Sometimes in light ripples the small waves go,. One by one. 232 MOTHER'S DEATH. MOTHER IS DEAD. 'pREAD softly ! bow the head. In reverend silence bow ! No passing bell doth toll. Yet an immortal soul Is passing now. O change ! O wondrous change ! Burst are the prison bars ; This moment there — so low In mortal prayer — and now Beyond the stars ! O change ! stupendous change ! Here lies the senseless clod ! The soul from bondage breaks The new immortal wakes — Walks with her God ! The long watches of the night are over, and she is gone; gone from her earthly home; gone from the society of those she loved ; gone to live with the dear MO THER 'S DEA TH. 223 ones " over yonder," and with the angels. She was happiest when surrounded by her family and friends, but death called and she went away willingly. Part of her family had long since gone over, and were " waiting and watching " for her ; and when the mes- senger came, she was ready to go. The night was dark and stormy without, but within there was a holy quiet, only disturbed by the heavy breathing of a dying mother and the sobs of weeping friends. We had watched and waited at her side for many long days and nights. We hoped and prayed that death might stay his hand and leave her with us ; but day after day she seemed to care less for things of earth and more for those of heaven. W.^ patiently watched and prayed as the weary days and nights wore on, but the trial hour came at last, and we assembled around her bed to see her die. As she went out across the dark river, we tried in broken utterances to sing of the beautiful land, the sweet home of the soul — " I will sing you a song of that beautiful land, The far away home of the soul. Where no storms ever beat on the glittering strand, While the years of eternity roll. " 224 MOTHER'S DEATH. Death halted not in his onward march, but with ruthless tread crushed our hearts, and laid hold on the mother that we loved ; and with a whispered good- night she fell asleep — ' " Asleep in Jesus, blessed sleep, From which none ever wake to weep." Morning dawned, but mother did not look upon the sunshine. Friends passed in and out, but she saw them not. She was shrouded for the grave, but saw not her white apparel. We drew back the curtain to look upon the calm and quiet face, but she did not notice us. We called, but she could not answer. We wept bitter tears of grief, but she heeded not our sor- row. Then the coffin came, and friendly hands lifted the precious dust into the softly cushioned bed. " Soon shall we meet again — Meet ne'er to sever ; Soon will peace wreathe her chain Round us forever ; Our hearts will then repose Secure from worldly woes ; MO THER ' S DBA Til. 225 Our songs of praise shall close — Never — no, never." One more kiss ; once more let us press those lips that never deceived us ; those lips that always spoke our name in love. But they are cold and silent now. One kiss on those pale cheeks and marble brow. Fare well, mother ; a long farewell — " Beyond the flight of time, Beyond the reign of death, There surely is some blessed clime, Where life is not a breath ; Nor life's affections transient fire, Whose sparks fly upward and expire. " There is a world above Where parting is unknown, A long eternity of love Formed for the good alone ; And faith beholds the dying here. Translated to that glorious sphere." And now the coffin is closed and the lid by kindly hands is made secure in its place. We turn from this scene and look upon the outer world. The fields are 226 MO THEM 'S DEA TH. bright and green as ever, perhaps, but to us a gloom has settled down on all things earthly. She loved these scenes ; loved to watch the sun come up ; to look on this beautiful landscape ; to watch the trees moving in the wind. But these things will attract her no more. She will never look on them again. Here comes her pastor. " God bless you," he says, " your mother is safe now, safe at last, safe at home, safe in heaven. It is well. On the other shore she will be ' waiting and watching ' for you. " How often mother has directed us to that land that knows no sorrow ; and how well we remember her prayers and tears for us in other years. The first prayer our infant lips learned to utter she taught us to repeat. Lift the coffin gently, and carry it carefully. Mother goes out from her fondly cherished home never to return. From out this door others have gone to the grave. She followed them, sadly weeping. How our number is growing less ; but few are left, and we, too, must soon follow. " Thus, star by star declines, Till all are passed away, As morning high and higher shines, MO THER 'S DEA TH. 22? To pure and perfect day ; Nor sink those stars in empty night, But hide themselves in heaven's own light. " What a lonely road, this, to the grave. Over it during the last few years the aged and the young have gone. Old age, with its gray hairs; youth in its beauty, and childhood in its innocence, have gone this lonely way ; but it is mother that is going now. Here are her children and her relatives, and her many friends in this silent funeral march to the grave. Some day we, too, must go this way. Over this road must we be taken when we are dead. Friends will follow silently, sadly as we follow now, and then we will be laid in the silent tomb. Here are the graves. How often dear mother has visited this place, and how many tears have fallen for those she loved! " Now her last labors done, Now the grave is won ; Oh, Grave, we come ; Seal up this precious dust — Land of the good and just, Take the soul home." Farewell, mother; a long, a last, a sad farewell; wc 228 MO THER 'S DEA TH. leave thee here to rest. Long and unbroken will be this silent slumber. Spring, with its blooming flow- ers ; autumn, with its harvest ; and winter, with its stormy winds, will come and go, but still wilt thou sleep on. Age after age will roll by, and this quiet slumber will be unbroken. Time's effacing fingers will wear the names from these marbles, and still wilt thou sleep on. One by one we too will come and lie down by thy side. But when the glorious resurrection morn shall come, as come it will, we shall together be caught up to meet our Lord in the air, coming in the clouds of heaven to gather his people home. Then our love shall be renewed again in that far off land of light. No chilling winds, nor poisonous breath, Can reach that healthful shore ; Sickness and sorrow, pain and death, Are felt and feared no more." What a lonely place home is now. Everything about it reminds us of her. Here the room she occu- pied, the vines she trained, the garments she wore. Home can never be whatit once was. Long months and years will we miss her who adorned it above all other MO THER 'S DBA Til. 229 ornaments. The garden paths, the pictures on the wall, the furniture, everything reminds us of mother — " There's a land far away mid the stars, we are told. Where they know not the sorrows of time." And to that land we will direct our steps ; to that land mother has found her way. There they die no more. There friends long parted meet again. " O ! our sainted mother, we will not deplore you as lost, for we are yet one, and shall forever be ; for that bond which united us here shall exist in all its strength and vigor when the wheels of the universe shall stand still ; when every mountain shall have fallen, it shall remain unimpaired ; when every law whose authority is acknowledged by material nature shall have been annulled, this law of love shall be in force." When every river has run dry and the sea is without a drop ; when the sun and moon have been blown out and the last star has burned down; when the watch-fires of heaven have all died away and the uni- verse has rolled together as a scroll, then this family bond shall become immortal and die no more. A few more days and time with us will have closed, and the 2$0 Mo THER 'S DEA TM, things of earth will have passed away, and we will be at home. " Only waiting 'till the angels Open wide the mystic gat6, At whose feet I long have lingered, Weary, poor, and desolate. Even now I hear the footsteps, And their voices far away; If they call me I am waiting, Only waiting to obey." Hail, ye far off lands of light ! Hail, ye moving millions that walk the plains of the New Jerusalem ! Hail, all hail ! mother dear, we are coming home. MOTHER'S DEATH, 231 MOTHERLESS. —Duf Porter. TTTHAT is home without a mother ? Ah ! surely best they know, Where the days' long weary shadows Die with no sunset glow ; Where the pained ear aches with waiting, But hears no answer sweet ; Where the eyes grow dim with watching. The dear lost face to greet ; Where the children meet at twilight. Only the darkness dread, No soft hand with fond caressing To soothe the troubled head ; Where no kiss with love's sweet healing, In silence of night, Like a benediction holy. Gives peace 'till morning light. Ah ! the dark wide gulf's deep yawning. The aching void unfilled ; Ah ! the silence drear, unbroken, 232 MOTHER'S DEATH. By her voice never thrilled. Ah ! the midnight pall unlifted, The presence grim and cold, That have filled with gloom the places That she made bright of old. It is day without its sunshine, A June with roses dead ; It is summer without harvest. But blighted fields instead ; It is blackest wing of sorrow. Low brooding day by day, O'er the heart's most sacred yearning, While slow years pass away. MOTHER'S DEATH. 233 MY MOTHER'S PRAYER. AST wandered 'round the homestead, Many a dear famihar spot, Brought within my recollection, Scenes I'd seemingly forgot. There, the orchard — meadow yonder — Here the deep, old-fashioned well, With its old moss-covered bucket, Sent a thrill no tongue can tell. Though the house was held by strangers, All remained the same within. Just as when a child I rambled Up and down, and out and in ; To the garret dark ascending (Once a source of childish dread), Peering through the misty cobwebs, Lo 1 I saw my trundle-bed. Quick I drew it from the rubbish. Covered o'er with dust so long, 234 MOTHER'S DEATI^. When, behold, I heard in fancy, Strains of one familiar song, Often sung by my dear mother To me in that trundle-bed : " Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed." While I listen to the music Stealing on in gentle strain, I am carried back to childhood — I am now a child again ; Tis the hour of my retiring, At the dusky even-tide ; Near my trundle-bed I'm kneeling, As in yore, by mother's side. Hands are on my head so loving, As they were in childhood's days ; I, with weary tones, am trying To repeat the words she says ; 'Tis a prayer in language simple As a mother's lips can frame : " Father, thou who art in heaven, Hallowed ever be thy name. " MOTHER'S DEATH. 235 Prayer is over — to my pillow With a good-night kiss I creep, Scarcely waking while I whisper, " Now I lay me down to sleep." Then my mother o'er me bending. Prays in earnest words, but mild: " Hear my prayer, O heavenly Father, Bless, oh bless, my precious child." Yet I am but only dreaming, Ne'er I'll be a child again, Many years has that dear mother, In the quiet grave-yard lain ; But her blessed, angel spirit Daily hovers o'er my head, Calling me from earth to heaven, Even trom my trundle-bed. 236 MOTHER'S DEATH, A FATHER TO HIS MOTHERLESS CHILDREN. — M7's. Lydia A. Sigourney, ATOU'RE weary, my precious ones ; your eyes Are wandering far and wide ; Think ye of her who knew so well Your tender thoughts to guide! Who could to wisdom's sacred lore Your fixed attention claim, Ah! never from your hearts erase That blessed mother's name. Tis time to sing your evening hymn, My youngest infant dove ; Come press your velvet cheek to mine And learn the lay of love ; My sheltering arms can clasp you all, My poor deserted throng ; Cling as you used to cling to her. Who sings the angel's song. Begin, sweet bird, the accustomed strain, Come, warble loud and clear, MOTHER'S DEATH. ^V Alas ! alas ! you're weeping all, You're sobbing in my ear. Good-night, go say the prayer she taught Beside your little bed ; The lips that used to bless you there Are silent with the dead. A father's hand your course may guide Amid the thorns of life, His care protect those shrinking plants, That dread the storms of strife ; But who upon your infant hearts Shall like that mother write ? Who touch the springs that rule the soul ? Dear smitten flock, good-night. 238 MOTHER'S DEATH. MY MOTHER'S BIBLE. — Bishop Gilbert Haven. /^N one of the shelves of my library, surrounded by volumes of all kinds, on various subjects and in various languages, stands an old book, in its plain cov- ering of brown paper, unprepossessing to the eye, and apparently out of place among the more pretentious volumes that stand by its side. To the eye of the stranger it certainly has neither beauty nor comeliness. Its covers are worn ; its leaves marred by long use ; its pages, once white, have becom^e yellow with age ; yet old and worn as it is, to me it is the most beautiful and most valuable book on my shelves. No other awakens such associations, or so appeals to all that is best and noblest within me. It is, or rather it was, my mother's Bible — companion of her best and holiest hours, source of her unspeakable joy and consolation. It was the light to her feet and lamp to her path. It was constantly by her side ; and, as her steps tottered in the advance pilgrimage of life, and her eyes grew dim with age, more and more precious to her became the well-worn pages. One morning, just as the stars were fading into the MOTHER'S DEATH. 239 dawn of the coming Sabbath, the aged pilgrim passed on beyond the stars, and beyond the morning, and en- tered into the rest of the eternal Sabbath — to look upon the face of him of whom the law and the prophets had spoken, and whom, not having seen, she had loved. And now, no legacy is, to me, more precious than that old Bible. Years have passed ; but it stands there on its shelf, eloquent as ever, witness of a beautiful life that is finished. When sometimes, from the cares and con- flicts of external life, I come back to the study, weary of the woild and tired of men, that are so hard and selfish, and a world that is so unfeeling — and the strings of the soul have become untuned and discordant, I seem to hear that book saying, as with the well remembered tones of a voice long silent, " Let not your heart be troubled, for what is your life ? It is even as a vapor." Then my troubled spirit becomes calm ; and the little world that had grown so great, and so formidable, sinks into its true place again. I am peaceful. I am strong. There is no need to take down the volume from the shelf, or to open it. A glance of the eye is sufficient. Memory and the law of association sup- ply the rest. Yet there are occasion^ when it is 24C MOTHER'S DEATH. otherwise ; hours in life when some deep grief has troubled the heart; some darker, heavier cloud is over the spirit and over the dwelling, and when it is a comfort to take down that old Bible and search its pages. Then, for a time, the latest editions, the origi- nal languages, the notes and commentaries, and all the critical apparatus v/hich the scholar gathers around him for the study of the Scriptures are laid aside ; and the plain old English Bible that was my mother's is taken from the shelf. m^ MOTHER'S DEATH. 241 ON THE RECEIPT OF MOTHER'S PICTURE. William Cowper. /^ THAT those lips had language! Life has pass'd With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smiles I see, The same that oft in childhood solac'd me ; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, " Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away ;" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic chain To quench it), here shines on me still the same. Faithful remembrance of one so dear, welcome guest, though unexpected here! Who bid'st me honor with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 1 will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own! And, while that face renews my failing grief. Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief. 242 MOTHER'S DEATH. Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, A momentary dream, that thou art she. My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed! Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son — Wretch'd even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss ; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss ; Ah, that maternal smile, it answers, ** Yes." I heard the bell toll'd on thy funeral day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away ; And turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ; But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are sounds unknown! May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more. Thy maidens griev'd themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of a quick return. What ardently T wish'd, I long believ'd, MOTHER'S DEATH. 243 And, disappointed still, was still deceived ; By expectation ev'ry day beguil'd, Dupe of to-morrow, even from a child, Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, I learn'd at last submission to my lot. But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt, our name is heard no more. Children not thine, have trod my nurs'ry floor ; And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day. Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we call'd the past'ral house our own. Short liv'd possession ! but the record fair That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there. Still outlives many a storm, that has effac'd A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; 244 MOTHER'S DEATH. Thy morning bounties, ere I left my home, The biscuit or confectionery plum ; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd ^y thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow*d ; All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks, That humor interpos'd too often makes ; All this still legible in mem'ry's page. And still to be so to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honors to thee as my numbers may ; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorn'd in heav'n, though little noticed here. • Could Time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissu'd flow'rs, The violet the pink, and jessamine, I prick'd them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak and stroke my head, and smile), Could those few pleasant days again appear. MOTHER'S DEATH. 245 Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart — the dear delight Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might, — But no — what here we call our life is such, So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weathered and the ocean cross'd). Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle, Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; So thou with sails how swift ! hast reached the shore, " Where tempests never beat nor billows roar. " And thy lov'd consort on the dangerous tide Of life long since has anchored by thy side ; But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest. Always from port withheld, always distressed — 846 MOTHER'S DEATH, Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest toss'd, Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost, And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course ; Yet oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not, that I deduce my birth From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the earth, But higher far my proud pretensions rise — The 5on of parents pass'd into the skies. And now, farewell! — Time unrevok'd has run His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. By contemplation's help, nor sought in vain, I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again; To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine; And while the wings of fancy still are free. And I can view this mimic show of thee. Time has but half succeeded in his theft — Thyself remov'd, thy power to soothe me left MOT/fER'S DEATH, BAPTISM OF AN INFANT AT ITS MOTHER'S FUNERAL. --'Mrs. Lydia A. Sigourney, TTTHENCE is that trembling of a father's hand, Who to the man of God doth bring this babe, Asking the seal of Christ ? Why doth the voice That uttereth o'er its brow the triune name, Falter with sympathy ? And most of all. Why is yonder coffin lid a pedestal For the baptismal fonts? And again I ask — • But all the answer was those gushing tears Which stricken hearts did weep, For there she lay — The fair young mother in that coffin bed, Mourned by the funeral train. The heart that beat, With trembling tenderness to every touch Of love, or pity, flushed the cheek no more. 248 MOTHER'S DEATH. I THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. — Eliza Cook^ LOVE it ! I love it ! and who shall dare To chide me for loving that old arm-chair ? I've treasured it long as a sainted prize ; I've bedewed it with tears and embalmed it with sighs 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart ; Not a tie will break, not a link will start. Would you learn the spell ? A mother sat there ; And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. In childhood's hour I lingered near The hallow seat with listening ear, To gentle words that mother would give. To fit me to die and teach me to live : She told me shame would never betide With truth for my creed, and God for my guide ; She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. I sat and watched her many a day, When her eyes grew dim and her locks were gray ; MOTHER'S DEATH. 249 « And I almost worshiped her when she smiled, And turned from her Bible to bless her child. Years rolled on, but the last one sped ; My idol was shattered, my earth star fled ; I learned how much the heart can bear, When I saw her die in that old arm-chair. 'Tis past ! 'tis past ! but I gaze on it now With quivering lip and throbbing brow ; 'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she ditd, And memory flows with lava tide. Say it is folly and deem me weak, While the scalding drops steal down my cheek ; But I love it ! I love it ! and cannot tear My soul from my mother's old arm-chair. 2 so MOTHER'S DEATH. THE DYING MOTHER. T AY the gem upon my bosom. Let me feel the sweet warm breathy For a strange chill o'er me passes, And I know that it is death. I would gaze upon the treasure, Scarcely given ere I go ; Feel her rosy, dimpled fingers Wander o'er my cheek of snow* I am passing through the waters, But a blessed shore appears ;* Kneel beside me, husband dearest, Let me kiss away thy tears. Wrestle with thy grief, my husband, Strive from midnight until day, It may leave an angel's blessing When it vanisheth away. MOTHER'S DEATH. 251 Lay the gem upon my bosom, 'Tis not long she can be there ; See! how to my heart she nestles, *Tis the pearl I love to wear. If in after years, beside thee Sits another in my chair, Though her voice be sweeter music, And her face than mine more fair ; If a cherub calls thee " father, " Far more beautiful than this. Love thy first-born, O my husband! Turn not from the motherless. Tell her sometimes of her mother — You can call her by my name : Shield her from the winds of sorrow, If she errs, O gently blame! Lead her sometimes where I'm sleeping, I will answer if she calls. And my breath shall stir her ringlets, 252 MOTHER'S DEATH, When my voice in blessing falls ; Her soft black eye wjll brighten, And wonder whence it came ; In her heart when years pass o'er her. She will find her mother's name. %. It i^5f^^=-^ ^.^£^ - _-j MOTHER'S DEATH, 253 TO MOTHER. •— -Emanuel Vitilas Scherb, from Switzerland. T^ULL twenty years have passed away, (They seem now but a single day), Since last I saw thee, mother. But I was then a wayward child And very young, and very wild, Alas! thou knowest it, mother ; And high my passions wine did foam, I could no longer stay at home, I wanted through the world to roam. Away from thee, dear mother. I knew not then what now I know — That through the world, where'er you go, You find no second mother ; I thought then in my foolish mind, With wild romantic notions blind, That everywhere I was to find Human hearts as warm and kind 254 ^O THER 'S DBA TH. As the one I left behind — As thin^^, tbou kindest mother. And so I rushed into the world, By stormy, fiery passions hurled Away from tliee, dear mother. And on the whirlwind did I ride, Without a goal, without a guide, Wandering far and wandering wide, And always farther from thy side — Thy side, my blessed mother. I roamed and roamed the world around, But what I sought I never found, I never found it, mother. I sought for nothing more nor less Than an ideal happiness, Sought Paradise in the wilderness, And could not find it, mother. I sought a heart, I sought a soul, I sought a love intense and whole, MO THER 'S DEA TH. 255 A deathless love, O mother ! I sought for glory's stainless shrine, I sought for wisdom's drossless mine, Sought men and women all divine, And never found them, mother. And worried by the endless race, And sickened by the fruitless chase, Old, cold, and faint, O mother ! With breaking heart and darkened eye, I bade my soring hopes good-by, And weary both of earth and sky, I laid me down, and yearned to die, To die and rest, O mother ! But He whose name be ever blest, Who loves us more and knows us best, Took pity on me, mother ; And from his own effulgence bright. He sent imparting strength and sight, A quickening ray of heavenly light And peace — His peace, O mother ! 256 MO THER ' S DEA TH. And now life's stormy days are past. My heart at last, at last Has found its haven, mother. By wild desires no more distrest, No passion now can heat my breast, Save one which has outlived the rest, The earliest, deepest, and the best, My love to thee, dear mother. But thou hast left this vale of tears, And winged thy way to better spheres. Far from thy child, O mother \ The boundless gratitude I owe. The heart's warm love I fain would show, The tender care I should bestow. My thousand debts of long ago — I cannot pay them here below, I cannot pay them, mother. But thou so gentle, and so mild, Thou wilt not spurn thy erring child, Thou wilt forgive me, mother. MOTHER'S DEATH. 257 Behold the days are running fast, Fm with the old already classed, Soon will the darksome vail be passed ; Then comes the hour, when at last, My spirit arms around thee cast, I shall repay thee, mother. MY MOTHER. A LAS, how little do we appreciate a mother's tender- ness while living ! How heedless are we in youth of all her anxieties and kindness ! But when she is dead and gone ; when the cares and coldness of the world come withering to our hearts ; when we ex- perience how hard it is to find true sympathy, how few love us for ourselves, how few will befriend us in our misfortunes, then we think of the mother that loved us, and to her our hearts turn yearningly. 258 MO THER 'S DEA TH, MY TRUNDLE-BED. •^R. M. Streeter, AST rummaged through the attic, Listening to the falling rain As it pattered on the shingles And against the window pane, — Peering over chests and boxes, Which with dust were thickly spread, Saw I in the farthest corner What was once my trundle-bed. So I drew it from the recess Where it had remained so long, Hearing all the while the music Of my mother's voice in song. As she sung in sweetest accents What I since have often read : " Hush, my dear, lie still and sluiuber; Holy angels guard thy bed." As I listened, recollections That I thought had been forgot. MOTHER'S DEATH. 25s Came with all the gush of memory, Rushing, thronging, to the spot ; And I wandered back to childhood. To those merry days of yore, When I knelt beside my mother, By this bed upon the floor. Then it was with hands so gently Placed upon my infant head. That she taught my lips to utter Carefully the words she said. Never can they be forgotten, — Deep are they in memory driven: " Hallowed be thy name, O Father ; Father! thou who art in heaven." This she taught me ; then she told mc Of its import, great and deep ; After which I learned to utter, " Now I lay me down to sleep.** Then it was with hands uplifted And in accents soft and mild, 26o MO THER 'S DEA Tft. That my mother — " Our Father, Bless, O, bless my precious child!" Years have passed, and that dear mother Long has slumbered, 'neath the sod, And I trust her sainted spirit Revels in the home of God. But that scene at summer twilight Never has from memory fled. And it comes in all its freshness When I see my trundle-bed. MO THER 'S DEA TH. 261 ON THE DEATH OF A MOTHER. A T length, then, the tenderest of mothers is gone ; Her smiles, her love, accents, can glad thee no more ; That once cheerful chamber is silent and lone. And for thee all a child's precious duties are o'er. Her welcome at morning, her blessing at night, No. longer the crown of thy comforts can be ; And the friend seen and loved since thine eyes first saw light, Thou canst ne'er see again; thou art orphaned like me. IV /TORE severing of tender cords, and more wounds ^^^ that never heal, result from the mother's death than from any other event that can take place in any home. 26z MOTHER'S DEATH. MOTHER'S VACANT CHAIR. ' — T. DeWitt Ta Image. T GO a little farther on in your house, and I find the '*' mother's chair. She had so many cares and troubles to soothe that it must have rockers. I remem- ber it well. It was an old chair and the rockers were almost worn out, for I was the youngest, and the chair had rocked the whole family. It made a creaking noise as it moved, but there was music in its sound. It was just high enough to allow us children to put our heads into her lap. That was the bank where we deposited all our hurts and worries. Oh, what a chair that was. It was different from the father's chair — it was entirely different. You ask me how? I cannot tell, but we all felt it was different. Perhaps there was about this chair more gentleness, more tenderness, more grief when we had done wrong. When we were wayward father scolded, but mother cried. It was a very wakeful chair. In the sick day of children other chairs could not keep awake, that chair ilways kept awake — kept easily awake. That chair knew all the old lullabies, and all those word» MOTHER'S DEAT^. 263 less songs which mothers sing to their children. Songs in which all pity and compassion and sympathetic influ- ences are combined. That old chair has stopped rock- ing for a good many years. It may be set up in the loft or garret, but it holds a queenly power yet. When at night you went into the grog-shop to get the intoxicating draught, did you not hear a voice that said : " My son, why go in there ?" and louder than the boisterous encore of the theatre, a voice saying : " My son, what do you here ?" And when you went into the ' house of sin, a voice saying : " What would your mother do if she knew you were here ?" and you were provoked at yourself, and you charged yourself with superstition and fanaticism, and your head got hot with your own thoughts, and you went home, and you went to bed, and no sooner had you touched the bed than a voice said : " What a prayerless pillow ?" Man ! what is the matter ? This ! You are too near your mother's rocking-chair. " Oh, pshaw," you say, " there is noth- ing in that. I'm five hundred miles off from where I was born. I'm three thousand miles off from the Scotch kirk whose bell was the first music I ever 264 MOTHER'S DEATH. heard." I cannot help that. You are too near your mother's rocking-chair. " Oh," you say, " there can't be anything in that ; that chair has been vacant a great while." I cannot help that. It is all the mightier for that ; it is omnipotent, that mother's vacant chair. It whispers. It speaks. It carols. It mourns. It prays. It warns. It thunders. A young man went off and broke a mother's heart, and while he was away from home his mother died, and a telegram brought the son ; and he came into the room where she lay, and looked upon her face and cried : " O, mother, mother, mother, what your life could not do your death has effected ! This moment I give my heart to God !" And he kept his promise. Another victory for the vacant chair. MOTHER'S DEATH, 265 THE MOTHER PERISHING IN A SNOW- STORM. — Seba Smith, T^HE cold winds swept the mountain's height, And pathless was the dreary wild, And 'mid the cheerless hours of night, A mother wandered with her child ; As through the drifting snow she passed, Her babe was sleeping on her breast. And colder still the winds did blow, And darker hours of night came on. And deeper grew the drifting snow ; Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone ; " Oh, God ! " she cried in accents wild, " If I must perish, save my child. " She stripped her mantle from her breast, And bared her bosom to the storm, And round the child she wrapped the vest. And smiled to think the babe was warm ; 266 MO THER ' S DBA Tit. With one cold kiss, one tear she shed. And sunk upon her snowy bed. At dawn a traveler went by And saw her 'neath a snow- Van, The frost of death was in her eye, Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale ; He moved the robe from off the child, The babe looked up and sweetly smiled. IN A SNO"W STORM. —Page 265. MOTHER'S DEATH. 267 DEAD MOTHER. But when I go To my lone bed, I find no mother there ; And weeping kneel to say the prayer she taught ; Or when I read the Bible that she loved, Or to her vacant seat in church draw near, And think of her, a voice is in my heart, Bidding me early seek my God, and love My blessed Savior, and that voice is hers ; I know it is, because these were the words She used to speak so tenderly, with tears, At the twilight hour, or when we walked In the spring among rejoicing birds. Or peaceful talked beside the winter hearth. 268 MOTHER'S DEATH. THE DEATH-BED. — Thomas Hood. TTTE watched her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of Hfe Kept heaving to and fro. So silently we seemed to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers To eke her being out. Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied — We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died. For when the morn came dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed — she had Another morn than ours. MOTHER'S DEATH. 269 DEATH SCENE. — 'Phebe Carey. TRYING, still slowly dying, As the hours of night rode by ; She had lain since the light of sunset Was red on the evening sky, Till after the middle watches, As we softly near her trod, — When her soul from its prison fetters Was loosed by the hand of God. One moment her pale lips trembled With the triumph she might not tell. As the sight of the life immortal On her spirit's vision fell ; Then the look of rapture faded. And the beautiful smile was faint, As that in some convent picture On the face of a dying saint. And we felt in the lonesome midnight, As we sat by the silent dead, 270 MOTHER'S DEATH. What a light on the path going downward The feet of the righteous shed ; When we thought with faith unshrinking She came to the Jordan's tide, And taking the hand of the Savior, Went up on the other side. LIPS I HAVE KISSED. T IPS I have kiss'd, ye are faded and cold ; Hands I have press'd, ye are covered with mold ; Form I have press'd, thou art crumbling away. And soon on thy bosom my breast I will lay. Friends of my youth, I have witnessed your bloom; Shades of the dead, I have wept at your tomb ; Tomb, I have wreaths, I have flowers for thee. But who will e'er gather a garland for me? MO THER'S DEA TH. 27 1 K LINES BY WHITTIER. ND yet, dear heart, remembering thee, Am I not richer than of old? Safe in thy immortality, What change can reach the wealth I hold, Thy love hath left in trust with me? And while in life's late afternoon, When cool and long the shadows grow, I walk to meet the night that soon Shall shape and shadow overflow, I cannot feel that thou art far. When near at need the angels are ; And when the sunset gates unbar, Shall I not see thee waiting stand, And white against the evening star. The welcome of thy beckoning hand? 272 MOTHER'S DEATH. A MOTHER'S DEATH. 'PvEATH comes an unsought guest to every board, and at his spectral bidding some loved one goes forth to his mysterious home. Time and philosophy may teach resignation unto hearts made desolate by his coming; but they can never fill the vacancy therein when she that was our mother no longer casts a halo about our darkened hearth. A mother's place — so loved — so worshiped — once empty, must be forever so, A breast once panged by a mother's death no medicine can reach with healing. No man however scarred, no heart however hardened, can forget the gentle being who gave him life. A mother is truly our guardian spirit upon earth ; her goodness shields and protects; she walks with our infancy, our youth and maturing age, ever sheltering us with her absorbing love, and expiating our many sins with her blessed prayers. And when our mother, with all her burden of love, her angelic influence, her saintly care, ceases her beauteous life, how much we lose of home MOTHER'S DEATH. 273 of happiness, of heaven, no one can reckon ; for our mother was none but ours, and we only can know how holy she was, how sacred her memory must ever be. But may we now borrow consolation from the thought that our loss is heaven's gain ; that surely her angel spirit watches over us, erasing with grateful tears the records of our sins, and making easy our path to her, with blessed and blessing prayers. MOTHER'S LOVE CANNOT DIE. ly MOTHER'S love is the purest and the best of any love born on earth, and it is as unselfish and un- dying as eternity's years. Other loves may die, mother- love never will, never can. 274 MOTHER'S DEATH, THE DYING MOTHER. THRESH in our memory, as fresh As yesterday, is yet the day she died. We gathered round her bed, and bent our knees In fervent supplication to the Throne Of mercy, and performed our prayers with sighs Sincere, and penitential tears, and looks Of self-abasement ; but we sought to stay An angel on the earth, a spirit ripe for heaven. The room I well remember, and the bed On which she lay ; and all the faces, too, That crowded dark and mournfully around. But, better still, I do remember, and will ne'er forget. The dying eye ; that eye alone was bright, And brighter grew as nearer death approached. " God help my children!" we heard her say, and heard No more. The angel of the covenant Was come ; and, faithful to his promise, stood Prepared to walk with her thro' death's dark vale. MOTHER'S DEATH. ' 275 And now her eyes grew bright, and brighter still, Too bright for ours to look upon, suffused With many tears, and closed without a cloud ; They set as sets the morning star, which goes Not down behind the darkened west, nor hides Obscured among the temples of the sky, But melts away into the light of heaven. ^Pollok. '^ r TWILL ALL BE RIGHT IN THE MORNING," TT will all be right in the morning, I murmured then through the night, As I watched her heavily breathing. And longed for the coming light. It came with its golden sunshine. And I turned to my mother's bed, To kiss her lips as a welcome, But I found my mother dead. 276 MOTHER'S DEATH, TO MY DEAD MOTHER. — Otway Curry. QLEEP on, the cold and heavy hand Of death has stilled thy gentle breast ; No rude sound of this stormy land Shall mar thy peaceful rest ; Undying grandeur round thee close To count the years of thy repose, A day of the far years will break On every sea, and every shore In whose bright morning thou shalt wake, And rise to sleep no more — No more to molder in the gloom And coldness of the weary tomb. I saw thy fleeting Hfe decay, Even as a frail and withering flower, And vainly stro.ve to while away Its swiftly closing hour ; It came with many a thronging thought Of anguish ne'er again forgot. MOTHRSL'S DEATH. 277 In life's fond dreams I have no part — No share in its resounding glee ; The musings of my weary heart Are in the grave with thee ; There have been bitter tears of mine Above that lowly bed of thine. It seems to my fond memory now As it had been but yesterday; When I was but a child, and thou Didst cheer me in my play , And in the evening still and lone Didst lull me with thy music's tone. And when the twilight hours began, And shining constellations came, Thou bid'st me know each nightly sun And con its ancient name ; For thou hast learned their love and light With watching in the tranquil night. And then, when leaning on thy knee, I saw them in their grandeur rise, 278 MOTHER'S DEATH. It was a joy in sooth to me ; But now the starry skies Seem hoHer grown, and doubly fair, Since thou art with the angels there. The stream of life with hurrying flow, Its course may bear me swiftly thro* ; I grieve not, for I soon shall go, And by thy side renew The love which here for thee I bore. And never leave thy presence more. MOTHER-LOVE UNDYING. TTTHEN rolling years shall cease to move, when the days of all men have been numbered, and whea the earth shall have wandered away through space and been lost, mother-love will still live on as undying as the throne of God. MOTHER'S DEATH, 279 ON DREAMING OF MY MOTHER. QTAY, gentle shadow of my mother, stay ; Thy form but seldom comes to bless my sleep. Ye faithless slumbers, flee not thus away And leave my wistless eyes to wake and weep. Oh ! I. was dreaming of those golden days, When," Will" my guide, and " Pleasure" all my aim, I rambled wild through childhood's flowery maze. And knew of sorrow scarcely by her name. Those scenes are fled, — and thou, alas, are fled, Light of my heart and guardian of my youth, Then come no more to slumbering fancy's bed, To aggravate the pangs of waking truth ; Or if kind sleep these visions will restore, O let me sleep again and never waken more ! '—LittelP s Living Agi. 28o MO THER 'S BE A TH. RECOLLECTIONS. TT was thirty years since my mother's death, when, after a long absence from my native village, I stood beside the sacred mound beneath which I saw her buried. Since that mournful period a great change had come over me. My childish years had passed away, and with them my youthful character. The world was altered, too ; and as I stood at my mother's grave, I could hardly realize that I was the same thoughtless creature whose cheeks she had so often kissed in an excess of tenderness. But the varied events of thirty years had not effaced the remembrance of that mother's smiles. It seemed as if I had seen her but yesterday, as if the blessed sound of her well-remembered voice was yet in my ear. The gay dreams of my infancy and childhood were brought back so distinctly to my mind, that, had it not been for one bitter recollection, the tears I shed MOTHER'S DEATH. 281 would have been gentle and refreshing. The circum- stance may seem a trifling one, but the thought of it now pains my heart. My mother had been ill a long time, and I became so accustomed to her pale face and weak voice that I was not frightened by them, as children usually are. At first, it is true, I sobbed violently ; but when day after day I returned from school and found her the same, I began to believe that she would always be spared to me ; but they told me she would die. One day when I had lost my place in the class, and had done my work wrong, I came home discouraged and fretful. I went to my mother's chamber. She was paler than usual, but met me with the same gentle smile that always welcomed my return. Alas ! when I look back through the lapse of thirty years, I think my heart must have been stone not to have been melted by it. She requested me to go down stairs and bring her a drink of water. I pettishly asked why she did not call a domestic to do it. With a look of mild reproach which I shall never forget if I lived to be a hundred 282 MOTHER'S DEATH. years old, she said : " Will not my child bring a drink of water to her poor sick mother ?" I went and brought the water, but I did not do it kindly. Instead of smiling and kissing her, as I was wont to do, I set the water down quickly and left the room. After playing about for a short time I went to bed without bidding my mother good-night. But when alone in my room in darkness, and in silence, I remem- bered how pale she looked when she said : " Will not my child bring her mother a drink of water ?" I could not sleep. I stole into her room to ask forgiveness. She had sunk into an easy slumber, and they told me I must not waken her. I did not tell any one what troubled me, but stole back to my room, resolved to rise early in the morning and tell her how sorry I was for my conduct. The sun was shining brightly when I awoke, and hurrying on my clothes, I hastened to my mother's chamber. She was -dead ! When I touched the hand that used to rest upon my head in blessings, it was so cold that it made me start. I bowed down by her side and sobbed in the bitterness of my heart. I thought MO THER 'S DEA TH. 283 then I wished to die and be buried with her ; and old as I now am, that event is one of the bitterest recol- lections of my life; and while I live, I shall never cease to regret it. When I think of mother; when I think of her death, of her grave, or of her home in heaven, this careless, thoughtless, and cruel conduct of mine is always present. No act of mine has given me so much pain. '—Anonymous. 284 MOTHER'S DEATH, THE DEATH OF EVE. ^-George Waterman^ y. 'n^WAS evening tide. The fiery charioteer Who guides the courses of the king of day, Had urged his ascent up the azure space Which links the orient with the distant west, Until his burning wheels a moment paused Upon its utmost height. A moment more, And the descending archway mirrored forth The brilliant glories of the irradiant king ! And now, before he reached the utmost bound Which severs day from night, he paused again And cast a lingering look on scenes behind. Beneath a bower, near Eden's eastern gate. Around whose leafy side in festoon hung The richest, sweetest flowers of orient birth, Reclined the dying mother of mankind. The constant partner of her every joy. And (since that fatal day, when perfect bliss Fled their polluted bower and sped his way MOTHER'S DEATH. 285 To holier scenes beneath the throne of God) The constant partner of her every woe, Beside her knelt. Her children, too, were there ; Not all, for one was not. Long since his voice Had ceased to mingle with their pious song, As with the fading light of evening sky They offered up their joyous notes of praise To Him who rules the skies. One other still Was absent from that lonely group, which- thus In silence gathered round the mossy couch. To view a sight on earth unseen before — A mother's dying hour. That other one Now roamed a stranger to that holy peace Which springs from pardoned sin, with Heaven's broad seal Of reprobation on him. Some ere this Had gazed upon the pallid corpse of him Whose blood was by an elder brother shed ; Then nature, tremblingly, stood aghast ; and God, Before whose face a murdered brother's blood For retribution cried, in "xnger spoke, 286 MO THER ' S DBA TH. And midst the gloom his vengeful powers displayed. Now all was calm. Serene the^ sun declined, And naught except the breeze's silken hand Disturbed the ringlets on her fainting brow ; But soon a trembling seized that gentle form — A trembling passed through every nerve and limb' Unwonted paleness sat upon her face, And shortened breath spoke dissolution nigh. " Companion of my life," at length she said, " The hour is come. The oft-lamented doom. Which by my guilt we both incurred, now waits Its consummation. Speak to me, once more, Forgiveness of the rash and dreadful deed Which exiled us from Eden's blissful shades To wander here and reap the bitter fruit Of our rebellious act." Sudden she ceased ; For thought of joys for disobedience lost. And pain and death by her own hand incurred ; And more, the hatefulness of sin itself. Her utterance sealed. A look of tenderest love From Adam's moistened eye, her sorrows calmed, While from around full many a tear bespoke MOTHER'S DEATH, 287 The strength and tenderness of filial love. " My children," she resumed, " you too have heard The tragic tale of Eden's shameful fall. 'Tis woeful for a mother thus to name The sad inheritance she leaves to those She holds most dear. For you I still must grieve ; Yet weep not thus for me. Even now A shining seraph, from above, like those We often saw amid the flowery walks Of Paradise, whispers into my ear, In accents sweet, of endless joy above, And bids me look on-high. There Abel lives ; And drest in robes of spotless innocence. Before the Golden Throne adoring bends. With him a convoy of celestial ones Comes to attend my parting soul above, Where sin is known no more. " Hark! they draw near! I see them. now! Softly! they beckon me To join their song — a song so sweet, like that They sung when erst they saw Creation's work Wrought and complete. But hark! a single voice 288 MOTHER'S DEATH. And one well known, I hear. 'Tis Abel's voice And with a sweet-toned harp alone he sings A song unheard by all the heavenly choirs — The wonders of redeeming love! That song J/j/ voice shall join. Behold, the Blest Supreme Extends a golden harp and bids me come! Tlien quickly all farewell. Twill not be long ; For soon you, too, will join me there. Farewell! While thus she spoke, the solemn group had knelt Around her sylvan couch, with listening ear, To catch her every word. But when her voice, Which seemed new-tuned to join the blissful song, Pronounced that word " farewell, " her eyes stood fix'd. Reflecting, like some gentle sleeping lake, The silver beams of evening light ; and when The throbbing breast and quivering lips were stJled - And smiles which faded, not illumed the cheek. As though the soul had left upon that face The impress of its joy — then first to cry Of anguish deep bespoke the heart-felt grief; And mingled tears bedew'd that lovely form Forever stilled in death. MOTHER'S DEATH. 289 THE OLD HOME WITHOUT MOTHER. — Albert Barns. TT makes a sad desolation when from a happy home a mother is taken away, and when, whatever may be the sorrows or successes of hfe, she is to greet the returning son or daughter no more. The home of our childhood may be still lovely. The family mansion — the green fields — the running stream — the moss-cov- ered well — the trees — the lawn — the rose — the sweet brier may be there. Perchance, too, there may be an aged father, with venerable locks, sitting in his lone- liness, with everything to command respect and love ; but she is not there. The mother has been borne forth to sleep by the side of her children who went before her, and the place is not what it was. There may be those there whom we much love, but she is not there. We may have formed new rela- tions in life, tender and strong as they can be ; we may have another home, dear to us as was the home of our childhood, where there is all in affection, kindness, and religion to make us happy, but that home is not what 290 MOTHER'S DEATH. it was, and it will never be what it was again. It is a loosening of one of the cords which bound us to earth, designed to prepare us for our eternal flight from everything dear here below. T IFE is real, life is earnest, ^ And the grave is not its goal ; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the souL MOTHER'S DEATH. 291 MY MOTHER. — Mrs. Helen C. Smith. "T^IS more than twenty years ago, in autumn cold and gray, My gentle mother closed her eyes and passed from earth away. Her wasted form, her pallid cheek, her sweet, angelic smile. Told us that death was hovering near, though ingering for awhile ; But on that morning, while the stars paled in the light of day. Amid the tears that vainly sought the dreaded hand to stay, He bore her happy spirit hence across the swelling tide, And half the light went out from home the hour my mother died. My youthful days have long since flown to the return- less shore, Yet oft in thought I live again those early seasons o'er; 292 MOTHER'S DEATH. My mother's calm and patient face, methinks I see it now, Her cheerful smile, the lines of care that marked her thoughtful brow; Her loving eyes still look on me through parting mists of years, Her gentle voice still comforts me when I am bowed in tears ; I seem to see her form again, as once at close of day She stood within the open door and watched her child at play. And often in the dreams of night her cherished face I see, And 'mid the old famiHar scenes once more I seem to be ; Once more her hand is on my head, once more her voice I hear Singing the hymns of other days, to memory ever dear. How often in the summer morn that voice rose clear and sweet In praise to God, while I, a child, followed her busy feet. MOTHER'S DEATH. 293 My mother's voice ! Fond memory can no richer treasure bring, No songs are half so sweet to me as those she used to sing. No tales so well remembered are as those rehearsed to me, A happy, trusting little child beside my mother's knee ; Of all the gentle, loving words with which my life was blest. My own dear mother's were to me the wisest and the best. Yet oft as I look backward o'er the long, long waste of years, My heart is filled with sudden pain, my eyes grow dim with tears, As I recall with vain regret and many a secret smart, How oft, in times of waywardness, I grieved her tender heart. My mother, when I think of all thy self- forgetting zeal, 294 MOTHER'S DEATH. That sought another's grief to share, another's woes to heal ; The Httle shining deeds of love the world not often sees, Ah me ! I cannot count the worth of blessings such as these! But still in fadeless memories they are treasured every one, Those little golden threads of life her hands so deftly spun ; And often as in reverie they come again to mind, I would that I might leave as rich a heritage behind. AT MOTHER'S GRAVE. TITHEN I think of my mother, how tender and lov- ing she always was to me, I am ashamed and humiliated that I am not a better man ; and when I visit her grave, I never fail to renew my vows of faith- fulness to her instructions and to Heaven. MOTHER'S DEATH. 295 SHE IS DYING! QHE is dying ! Big, cold drops are gathering On her forehead, smooth and high. And a more than earthly light is beaming In her wild and brilliant eye. 'Neath the finger beats her pulse as Hghtly As a feather swayed by air ; And as cold as winter's snowy shrouding Are her hands so thin and fair. She is dying ! Ope the western window Wide, and let the sunset ray Greet once more on earth her fading vision, Ere her spirit pass away. Let her breathe the pure sweet air of heaven ; Let her hear the wild bird's song — Quickly bring some water cool and limpid, Moist her parched lips and tongue. She is dying ! Loved ones are bending O'er her pale and wasted form ; 296 MOTHER'S DEATH. One her icy hand is fondly pressing; Tears of grief are gushing warm. Now her bloodless lips are trem'lous moving- — = Brighter grows her brilliant eye — Ears are bent to catch the broken whisper Of her long and last good-by. She is dying ! See the smile of rapture Playing on her pallid face ; Bright, seraphic forms are waiting — Soon she'll feel their sweet embrace. . It is finished ! Death's dread struggle's over; Homeward has the spirit fled ; Cold and lifeless in the arms of the dread monster Lies the mother — she is dead. MOTHER'S DEATH, 297 MEMORIES OF MOTHER. 'T^HERE is something in sickness that breaks down the pride of manhood ; that softens the heart, and brings it back to the feeHngs of infancy. Who that has languished, even in advanced life, in sickness and despondency ; who that has pined in a weary bed, in the neglect and loneliness of a strange land, but has thought of the mother that looked on his childhood, that smoothed his pillow and administered to his help- lessness? Oh! there is ftn enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to a son, that transcends all other affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by 'selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience ; she will surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment ; she will glory in his fame, and exult in his prosperity: — and, if misfortune overtake him, he will be dearer to her for his misfortune. 298 MOTHER'S DEATH, MY MOTHER'S WHEEL. TN the shadows creeping o'er Narrow pane and attic floor, Stands a wheel with mold'ring band, Turned no more by foot or hand: Dust upon it deeply lies, Tiny specks that cloud the eyes ; Over it the spiders spin Daylight out and evening in. As I sit beside it now, Weary heart and aching brow, Years go backward as the tide From the silver seasons glide. Life again is passing fair, Sunshine glints my face and hair, And a simple child I kneel Happy by this little wheel. Once again I hear its hum, While the moments go and come ; MOTHER'S DEATH. 299 See the tireless fingers hold Finest threads like shining gold ; Busy till the sunset red, Till the last faint beam is fled ! Spinning all the livelong day, Hours of pain and joy away. Faithful hands that toiled so long, Lips that sung my cradle song, Come and hush my sighs once more, Lighten burdens as before ! Softly through the silent room Floats a brightness through the gloom, While her presence seems to steal Back to me beside this wheel. A WOMAN strong and firm to do the right, Who with the old-time martyrs might have stood, Yet full of sympathy with every mood, In time of trouble cheery, still and bright. — C7. Wet her ly. 300 MOTHER'S DEATH. THE PATHOS OF LIFE. A PROFOUND thinker, after Investigating the other religions of the world, past and present, will dis- cover that it is the pathetic side of Christianity wTiich gives it the strange stamp of divinity. Therein lies its power of deepening and broadening the emotional nature of mankind and womankind, and rendering them noble and progressive. It is, also, the pathos of the soul which tells best of its immortality. Nothing could be more pathetic than the last request of the late Governor Wiltz, of Louisiana. " Stand in the sunlight that I may look on you as I die ! " said he. And the weeping wife left his bedside, and, with the light pour- ing in upon her face and form, was the last object on which the eyes of the dying man rested. An incident occurred in Jersey City not long since, which must bring something more than sympathy to the eyes of sensitive people. Tvv-enty years since the husband of a poor woman entered the army as a soldier in the late civil war, but was not heard of again. Dur- MOTHER'S DEATH. 301 !ng all that time she had supported herself by manual labor of a severe character, and accumulated over four hundred dollars, when she died. Her death was sup- posed to have been caused by sudden illness, and, when found by her neighbors, her eyes were stonily fixed on the clothes of her baby, which she had treasured since her husband departed for the battlefield. She had prepared to die, and made herself a shroud in which she robed herself, and spread on a chair at the head of her bed were a white veil and garments supposed to have been used by her when a bride. A portrait of her baby was found in a chest, along with the clothing of a tiny being some two years old. She had laid the chest open so she could see them, and thus contentedly resigned herself to death. A mother's love ! it is a gleam Of sacred light, That makes the world an Eden seem — Mrs. Gardner. 302 MO THER' S DEA TH. MY MOTHER KNELT IN PRAYER. — Thomas McKeller /^NCE in my boyhood's gladsome day, My spirits light as air, I wandered to a lonely room Where mother knelt in prayer. Her hands were clasped in fervency, Her lips gave forth no sound ; Yet, awe-struck, solemnly I felt I stood on holy ground. My mother, all-entranced in prayer, My presence heeded not ; And reverently I turned away In silence from the spot. An orphan wanderer, far from home In after-time I strayed ; But God has kept me, and I feel He heard her when she prayed. ^^ ^% ^(|l©tSep'g drauG'^'^ te\ /©«• 4 Slie sleeps, she sleeps T And. never more Will her footsteps fail hy the old hom« door. THE HOLY GRAVE. WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR THIS BOOK. —C. C, Woods. D. L, 1 stood alone, About me softly fell the shadows gra3\ The west that late had flushed with rosy tints Now ashen grew as fled the sun afar Like maiden who with paling cheek beholds Her love depart. Alone, yet not alone ; The evergreen a kindly welcome waved, The rose-tree nodded as endowed with life And pity. The gentle breath of eve Fell on m,y heated brow as with A mother's loving kiss enriched. The marble white on which I leaned Had gazed upon the sun until a warmth Had touched its heart. It brought no chill To thrill along my nerves and tell Of depths below. So tender was the hour, 305 3o6 MOTHER'S GRAVE. A gentle peace descended on my heart And holy memories filled my eyes with tears. Then through the mist that sorrow sent I read the legend carved upon the stone, It came from Holy Writ, and fitting 'twas The Word she loved so well should serve As epitaph : " Her children rise And call her blessed ; her husband also, and He praiseth her." The device on the stone, Two hands in farewell clasp, with " Till We meet again," as if the passing spirit Whispered back to one to whom she gave In girlhood sweet, the priceless trust, A woman's heart. * * * And he was dead. Then mused I, with a thrill of tender joy, " Bring chisel and remove that word which tells Of time : Leave only hands in greeting joined And ' We meet again ; ' for they have met No more to sorrow o'er the ills Of earth, or hand in hand to tread the path liiiiiiilili^^ A HOLY GRAVE. MOTHER'S GRAVE. 307 Of pilgrims through the vale of tears ; But with new youth and fonder love endowed To hold sweet converse through the rosy hours Of that eternal day. " The light of sun Was long since gone, and darkness grew apace, Yet in my heart a light diviner fell — The dust beneath me, though so holy, was But dust — my mother was not there ; But safe with God and dear ones gone before. Not there ; yet will that lowly grave Be Mecca to my wandering feet until I cross the river dark, and tread The shining way. 3o8 MOTHER'S GRAVE, TRIBUTE TO A MOTHER. — Lord Macaulay. /^HILDREN, look in those eyes, listen to that dear voice, notice the feeling of even a single touch that is bestowed upon you by that gentle hand ; make much of it while you have that most precious of all gifts, a loving mother. Read the unfathomable love of those eyes, the anxiety in that tone and look, however slight your pain. In after life you may have friends, fond, dear friends ; but never will you have again the inexpressible love and gentleness lavished upon you which none but a mother bestows. Often do I sigh in my struggles with the dark, uncaring world for the sweet, deep security I felt when, of an evening nestling in her bosom, I listened to some quiet tale suited to my age, read in her tender and untiring voice. Never can I forget the sweet glances cast upon me when I ap- peared asleep ; never her kiss of peace at night. Years have passed away since we laid her beside my father in the old church-yard, and still her voice whispers from the grave, and her eye watches over me, as I visit spots long since hallowed to the memory of my mother. MOTHER'S GRAVE. 309 MY MOTHER. ly f Y mother ! long, long years have passed Since half in wonder, half in dread, I looked upon thy clay-cold face, And heard the whisper — ** She is dead." The memory of thine earthly form Is dim as a remembered dream ; But year by year more close to mine Doth thy celestial spirit seem. When by the mouldering stone I stood, Which marks the spot where thou art laid, And with the daisies on the sod, My little child in gladness played. Oh, how my spirit longed to know If from the heights of heavenly joy, The love that watched my infant years, Looked down to bless my bright-eyed boy. 3IO MOTHER'S GRAVE. "SHE ALWAYS MADE HOME HAPPY. '^ TN an old church-yard stood a stone Weather-marked and stained ; The hand of time had crumbled it. So only part remained. Upon one side I could just trace, " In memory of our mother ; " An epitaph which spoke of home Was chiseled on the other. I've gazed on monuments of fame, High towering to the skies ; I've seen the sculptured marble stone Where a great hero lies ; But by this epitaph I paused And read it o'er and o'er, For I had never seen inscribed Such words as these before. " She always made home happy. " What A noble record left ; A legacy of memory sweet MOTHER'S GRAVE, 311 To those she loved, bereft ; And what a testimony given By those who knew her best, Engraven on this plain rude stone That marked their mother's rest. So when was stilled her weary heart, Folded her hands so white, And she was carried from the home She'd always made so bright. Her children raised a monument That money could not buy, As witness of a noble life, Whose record is on-high. A noble life, but written not In any book of fame ; Among the list of noted ones None ever saw her name ; For only her own household knew The victories she had won, And none but they could testify How well her work was done. 312 MOTHER'S GRAVE. MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. — M. C. Henderson. nPHE grave of my mother is on an elevation that overlooks a beautiful village where many an hour was spent in study and recreation in days of boyhood. A marble slab marks the place where we laid her to rest, nearly a score of years ago. Occasionally during these years have we stood by her grave, while precious remembrances have crowded upon our mind, and the sweet hope of meeting again cheered our sad hearts burdened with care and the responsibilities of life, and our home far away ; but a mother's grave, with all the hallowed associations clustering around, can never be forgotten. The grave of a mother is indeed a sacred spot. It may be retired from the noise of business, and un- noticed by the stranger, but to our hearts so dear. The love w^e bear to a mother is not measured by years, is not annihilated by distance, nor forgotten when she sleeps in dust. Marks of age may appear in our homes, and on our persons, but the memory of a mother is MOTHER'S GRAVE. 313 more enduring than time itself. Who has stood by th# grave of a mother and not remembered her pleasar.f smiles, kind words, earnest prayers, and assuranc?^ expressed in a dying hour. Many years may hav_' passed away, memory may be treacherous in othe/ things, but will reproduce with freshness the impres sions once made by a mother's influence. Why oiay we not hnger where rests all that was earthly of ?t sainted mother? It may have a restraining influc>;/f.e upon the wayward, prove a valuable incentiv(^, to increased faithfulness, encourage hope in the hour of depression, and give fresh inspiration in Christian life. 314 MOTHER'S GRAVE, OVER MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. T LOVE to stay where my mother sleeps, And gaze on each star as it twinkHng peeps. Through the bending willow which lonely weeps Over my mother's grave. I love to kneel on the green turf there, Afar from the scenes of my daily care, And breathe to my Savior my evening prayer Over my mother's grave, I will remember how oft she led, And knelt me by her as with God she plead, That I might be his when the sod was spread Over my mother's grave, I love to think how 'neath the ground, She slumbers in death as a captive bound ; But she'll slumber no more at the trumpet sound Over my mother's grave. —Apples of Gold, MOTHER'S GRAVE. 315 MEDITATIONS. Once more the grave is opened, The coffin and the shroud * * * Prepared, and the dead laid out for burial. Swift And sudden came the blow, and the freed spirit Took its heavenward flight, and rested with its God. Grief is dumb, and Sympathy is silent here. None but children know — Thy children, mother; their hearts alone can tell Thy worth, thy love; thy tender watchfulness. Long years of care and fond endearment, and kind words Of excellent instruction, have firm enstamped On memory's tablet what no words can tell, and What sorrow in her silent depths, at the sad loss, Alone can know. Oh, mother, mother, thou art gone; The hearth thy presence honored now is lone And desolate. Tears are here, and the sable robes Of mourning through these halls glide gloomily, for Thou, our joy, our love, our dear, dear mother, art not. Oh, we see thee now as in past happier times 3i6 MOTHER'S GRAVE. We saw thee, as with that old worn Bible on thy knees Thou didst read its living pages, and gather thence Its truths divine and heavenly sweets. We hear thy Kind words of teaching from its pure Oracles, And tell thy warm desire that we might find its hopes Our hopes, its Faith, as thine, our chiefest stay. Mother, Tell us — Do bright spirits know each face in heaven ? Do they mingle hearts which once on earth were joined? Do they speak of earthly meeting, and bring past joys To mind ? Oh, then we'll part with thee with chastened hearts, For thou art there, and we will cherish all thy words, And meet thee in the skies in high and heavenly Converse, to part not forever, ever more. — Lewellyn. MOTHER'S GRAVE. 317 AT MOTHER'S GRAVE. — yames Aldrich. TN beauty lingers on the hills The death smile of the dying day, And twilight in my heart instills The softness of its ray. f watch the river's peaceful flow Here standing by my mother's grave, And feel my dreams of glory go, Like weeds upon its struggling wave. God gives us ministers of love Which we regard not, being near, Death takes them from us — then we feel That angels have been with us here! As mother, sister, friend, or wife, They guide us, cheer us, soothe our pain ; And when the grave has closed between Our hearts and theirs, we love in vain. Would, mother, thou couldst hear me tell How oft, amid my brief career, 3i8 MOTHER'S GRAVE. For sins and follies loved too well Hath fallen the free repentant tear ; And in my waywardness of youth, How bitter thoughts have given to me Contempt for error, love for truth, Mid sweet remembrances of thee. The harvest of my youth is done, And manhood come with all its cares, Finds garnered up within my heart For every flower a thousand tears. Dear mother, couldst thou know my thoughts, Whilst bending o'er this holy shrine, The depths of feeling in my heart. Thou wouldst not blush to call me thine. 'T^HERE is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found ; They softly lie and sweetly sleep, Low in the ground. MOTHER'S GRAVE, 319 WRITTEN AT MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. — George D. Prentice. n^HE trembling dew-drops fall Upon the opening flowers like souls at rest ; The stars shine gloriously, and all Save me are blest. Mother, I love thy grave, The violet, with its blossoms blue and mild, Waves o'er thy head ; when shall it wave Above thy child ? Tis a sweet, sweet flower, yet must Its bright leaves to the coming tempest bow ; Dear mother, 'tis thine emblem ; -dust Is on thy brow. * And I could love to die ; To leave untasted life's dark bitter streams-— By thee, as erst in childhood He, And share thv dreams? 320 MOTHER'S GRAVE. But I must linger here To stain the plumage ol my sinless years, And mourn the hopes to childhood dear. With bitter tears. Aye, I must linger here, A lonely branch upon a withered tree, Whose last frail leaf, untimely sere, Went down with thee. Oft from life's withered bower. In still communion with the past, I turn And muse on thee, the only flower In memory's urn. Where is thy spirit flown ? I gaze above — thy look is imaged there ; I listen — and thy gentle tone Is on the air. O, come while here I press My brow upon thy grave ; and in those mild MOTHER'S GRAVE.. 321 And thrilling tones of tenderness. Bless, bless thy child ! And when the evening pale Bows, like a mourner on the dim blue wave, I stay to hear the night winds wail Around thy grave. ALONE. T WAS forty years old when mother died, was mar- '*■ ried, and she had nursed my children ; but I never feit more alone in the world than when I turned away from her new-made grave. 322 MOTHER'S GRAVE, SHE SLEEPS. — Sarah K. Bolton. She sleeps, she sleeps ! When the morning light Disperses the shadows of solemn night, When dew-drops are gleaming on leaf and spray, When blossoms are wooing the new-dorn day ; When bright birds are singing o'er hill and glen — Will she wake, will she speak To her loved ones then ? She sleeps, she sleeps ! When the day-beam dies In the crimson and gold of the evening skies, When the south wind whispereth low and sweet ; When the starlight comes with its silvery feet ; When night brings rest to the homes of men — Will she wake, will she speak To her loved ones then ? She sleeps, she sleeps ! When the gentle spring MOTHER'S GRAVE. 323 Returns from its southland wandering ; When the breezes sing and the children play; When the reapers scatter the new-mown hay; When they gather the sheaves of the golden grain — Will she wake, will she come To her home again? She sleeps, she sleeps! When the chilly winds Shake the yellow leaves from the withered vines ; When the autumn moon is full and red ; When the birds are gone and the flowers are dead ; When the frost on the sward lies deep and hoar — Will she wake, will she come To her home once more? She sleeps, she sleeps! When they meet at night In the cheerful glow of the home-fire's light ; When the wintry winds are wild and high ; When clouds are black in the cold gray sky; When her husband's brow is pale with care — 324 MOTHER'S GRAVE. Will she wake, will she come To her dear ones there? She sleeps, she sleeps! And never more Will her footsteps fall by the old home door, Nor her voice be heard with its loving tone By the lone ones left round her own hearth-stone, She has gone, she has gone to her home afar — To the beautiful land Where the angels are. MOTHER'S GRAVE. 325 NEARER THEE. 1\ MOTHER ! dear mother ! the feelings nurst As I hung at thy bosom, clung round thee first ; 'Twas the earliest link in love's warm chain — 'Tis the only one that will long remain ; And as year by year and day by day Some friend still trusted drops away, Mother ! dear mother ! oh, dost thou see How the shortened chain brings tne nearer thee. UNDER THE VIOLETS. TTER hands are cold ; her face is white No more her pulses come and go ! Her eyes are shut to life and light — Fold the white vesture, snow on snow, And lay her where the violets blow. 326 MOTHER'S GRAVE, MEDITATIONS AT THE GRAVE. "\ /FY departed mother once visited with me this lonely place, and thought and felt as I do now as she looked upon the graves of others ; but sickness came — death came — and the funeral obsequies ; and here now she reposes until wakened by the voice of the Son of God. Mortal — all are mortal ; I will not thrust you from my mind, ye thoughts of frailty, for ye are messengers come from Heaven's high throne, to assist in binding my fleeting life to that which is immutable and eternal. I know, I feel, I too must die ! True, this world is bright and beautiful, and it wearies me not ; health flows through my veins and glows in my cheek; strength nerves my arms, and strong are the pulsations of my heart ; my business, my family, and the many objects I wish to accomplish do press and clamor for death's delay; but he, the inexorable King of Terror, heeds not their voice, but disdains their entreaties. Death is coming ; he has been approaching me year by year, and day by day. The passing hours, and min- — T>age326. MEDITATIONS. MOTHER'S GRAVE, 32^ utes, and seconds tell me as they fly that he is coming nearer. With an eagle's eye he holds me in view, and with a lion's heart he follows upon my path; in the city or in the forest, by land or by sea, by night or by day, he never falters nor wearies. O, yes, I feel as I gaze upon yonder setting sun, that I have one day less — and nou that gorgeous glow upon the mountain-top vanishes, and dies away in the starlit heavens — yes, one hour less to live, since I came here to commune with my mother, and with ^he dead. Yes, my last sickness will come — my physician will be calm and silent, he will breathe no word of hope — my wife and children will weep around my bed — through the rooms with which I have been famil- iar for many years, it will be whispered, " He is dying! " and I will see the shadow of him who has so long pur- sued me fall upon my path — and I shall feel his skele- ton hands clutch my heart-strings, while his icy em- braces freeze my blood, and the tide of life stands still. Then it will be whispered through the house: " It is all over, he is dead!" All still — only the sobs of weeping loved ones will echo through that chamber where I bowed to the bidding of death. Cold and insensible 328 MOTHER'S GRAVE. shall I lie, while the vigils of friendship shall be kept for the last night that I shall ever spend in my long and fondly-cherished home. And the morning light of another day will break, but I shall not welcome its coming. The chirping of the swallows and notes of the robin and thrush will not ravish my ears. The beautiful landscape, over which my eyes wandered with so much delight in early morn, will not be surveyed by me. Friends will gather around me, and draw aside the curtains to let in the light of day, that they may look upon my face, but I will not know them. They will caress and kiss the lifeless form, but my heart will not thrill under the pressure of affection's hand, nor my lips throw back the glow of friendship's kiss. No ; I shall be dead! They will shroud me for my burial, but I shall not behold my white apparel. They will lay me in the cofhn, and I shall offer no resistance. My familiar friends will gaze upon me there, but I shall not return their look. And those whom I most loved will give their last lOng look, and I am then shut out from the world in which I have lived and moved. Gently is the lid laid over my face, and screwed fast. Neighbors and MOTHER'S GRAVE. 329 friends are gathered, and I am carried out of my house, never more to return. Even my name will pass from it, and strangers will dwell there. The funeral cortege will move sadly away from those ancient trees, and over that familiar road to this silent abode of the dead. And here they will lay me in the grave as they did my mother, by whose tomb I write. And the man of God will utter the solemn but hopeful words, " We commit this body to the ground — earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust — in hope of the general resurrection and the life of the world to come. " And, having performed this last sad office, they will return to their homes and leave me. I shall be alone in the grave ; alone shall I slumber. Strangers will read my brief history, which the hand of friendship may chronicle upon the marble, and then turn away with a sigh, and say, " Such is the end of man. " Those in whose memories I may live will often come to strew flowers over my grave, and drop a tear of affection. They will plant the rose, the lily, and the evergreen, as emblems of a fragrant and beautiful immortality which they assign me in the Paradise of Godc All this will 330 MOTHER'S GRAVE. take place with me — yes, all may say with me. Ah ! it is a solemn thought, that every step brings us nearer to the grave ; a solemn thought that there is but one passage to eternity, and that lies through " death's iron gate." For — " Sure, 'tis a serious thing to die, my soul ! What a strange moment must it be, when near Thy journey's end thou hast the gulf in view ! That awful gulf no mortal e'er repass'd, To tell what's doing on the other side !" MOTHER'S GRA VE. 33i MOTHER. — Mary Mapes Dodge. T^ARLY one summer morning, I saw two children pass, Their footsteps slow, yet lithesome, Scarce bent the tender grass. One lately out of babyhood Looked up with eager eyes ; The other watched her wistfully, Oppressed with smothered sighs. " See, mother," cried the little one, " I gathered them for you. The sweetest flowers and lilies, — And Mabel has some too." '* Hush, Nellie," whispered Mabel, " We have not reached it yet, Wait till we get there, my darling. It isn't far, my pet. " *' Get where?" asked Nellie, " tell me." " To the church-yard," Mabel said. 332 MOTHER'S GRAFE, "No! no!" cried little Nellie, And shook her sunny head. Still Mabel whispered sadly, " We must take them to the grave, Come, darling ;" and the childish /oice Tried to be clear and brave^ But Nellie still kept calling Far up into the blue: ** See, mother, see how pretty! We gathered them for you." And when her sister pleaded. And cried and would not go — " Angels don't live in church-yards, My mother don't, I know." Then Mabel bent and kissed her, " So be it, dear," she said, " We'll take them to the arbor And lay them there, instead. For mother loved it dearly, It was the sweetest place!" MOTHER'S GRAVE. 333 And the joy that came to Nellie Shone up in Mabel's face, I saw them turn and follow A path with blossoms bright Until the nodding branches Concealed them from my sight. But still, like sweetest music, The words came ringing through : See, mother, see how pretty ! We gathered them for you. " 334 MOTHER'S GRAVE, AT THE SEPULCHRE. TTOW faded and dead that rose seems. But a few ^ ^ days since and it was one of the most beautiful that grew here. It came out early in the spring, and from the day it first commenced to bloom, it has been my favorite and pet. I have watered and nursed it, day after day, and have watched its wide leaves unfold- ing themselves with a more than ordinary interest. I love flowers dearly, and the more when they are so very beautiful. I love, too, to pluck and carry them to those whose hearts are warm in sympathy with mine. This, I think, is a fitting place for them to bloom, and here their tender language is doubly sweet. How beautiful that red rose ; its language is that of love. And how appropriate ; for none but our best, and most sacred, and loving emotions are awakened when we are here. Here the ordinary difficulties of life are forgotten, and we feel that we are walking among the dead. Here we come to cultivate the feelings of tender regard for those who sleep in these silent sepulchres. Here friends ancj MOTHER'S GRAVE. 335 enemies lie side by side, and no discordant note dis- turbs the stillness of their long, long sleep. Here, too, the rose, in all its crimson hues, blooms out above them, filling the air with its fragrance, and lifting its tender arms up toward that land where love reigns supreme. But this one, this withered one, that I have loved and cherished so much, it has wilted, and the cold chilling winds of death have paled its crimson leaves. So fade and die those we love most and dearest. Early in the spring-time, its parent stem, reaching up, twined its tiny fingers about the branches of this little bush, where, see, it still clings. When the flower com- menced to unfold its pretty leaves, I was so delighted with their beauty, that I have ever since watched and nourished it with cherished feelings of love and tender- ness ; not for the evenness of its color, but for the beauty of its zigzag capillaries that ran promiscuously through its leaves, and for the fresh life with which it was clothed. But it has withered, and its drooping head leans down toward the homes of the dead. Yes- terday it was bright and beautiful; but when this morn- ing's sun came up, it wilted, and drooped, and died. 33^ MOTHER'S GRAVE. Ah, how soon the most lovely objects of earth fly away. To-day, the youth is full of life and health, his cheek blooms as the rose, and he plans for years to come; but to-morrow, the fell destroyer lays his withering hand upon him, and he fades and dies, as has this rose. How true that life's joys are fleeting, and that we have no abiding city here. But there is a land where we shall gather flowers that will not fade, and where our friends shall die no more. Many times have we visited this beautiful place, and watered and watched these flowers as they have unfolded above mother's grave, and the graves of the little children buried from her home. Here mother sleeps in holy quiet, while these flowers bloom over her silent abode. Here, too, is Dottie's grave, the child over whom she wept bitter tears, and at whose grave she planted flowers that still bloom as the summers come and go. Yonder is a sister's, and there a brother's grave ; and all around are the graves of our neighbors — those we knew and loved in years long gone ; and here by mother's side is a vacant place for us. When she died MOTHER'S GRAVE. 337 it was her request that we be buried by her side. Some time a grave will be dug here, and we will be brought and buried low in the ground. Then loved ones will plant flowers over us, and water them ; and, perhaps, care for them as we care for these. Friends will visit these grounds, and as they pass my grave, will linger for a while and talk of me and of my life's work. They will speak of the book I am now writing, of my mother, and of the love I cherished for her, and of how lonely life was to me when she was gone ; they will talk of those buried near me here, and, perhaps, of the want of care about my grave, and then pass on. My children will gather flowers, and scatter them over my grave ; and talk of how I suffered before I died, and how I loved them, and tried to care for them, and provide for them. They will speak of the last few days of my life, of the physician who attended me in my last illness, and of those who were present when I died. How strange it will be when my hands are folded across my breast and I am laid in a coffin, and buried here in this cold ground, where no one can ever look on me again. Dear mother, speak to me ; tell 338 MOTHER'S GRAVE, me how it seems to be covered up in the grave ? My heart is crushed in sadness, and I long for one word ; one token that will inspire my languid hope. Mother, speak to me! But, alas! I know that mother cannot speak, and so will it be with me some time. I will be buried here ; I will be shut up in a coffin and lowered in the ground, and the man of God will say, " Dust to dust and ashes to ashes. " I will be left deep down in the dreadful grave, the clods will be tumbled in on top of me, and I will sleep that sleep that knows no wak- ing. Dear me, how awful the thought! How will I escape ? Where can I fly away so that this frightful fate may not be mine ? What can I do that I may not die and be buried? Oh, the cold and cruel grave! But, alas, I must come here, and be buried in the ground! May my mother's God help me to meet this fate with courage ; that I may die as she died, full of faith and hope. " That awful day will surely come, The appointed hour makes haste When I must stand before my Judge, And pass the solemn test. " MOTHER'S GRAVE, 339 THE FAREWELL TO THE DEAD. ^^Mrs. Felicia Hemans, Come nearer! — ere yet the dust Soil the bright paleness of the settled brow, Look on your mother and embrace her now In still and solemn trust! Come nearer! — once more let kindred lips be pressed On her cold cheek ; then bear her to her rest! Yet weep, and it is well ; For tears befit earth's partings! — Yesterday Song was upon the lips of this pale clay. And sunshine seemed to dwell Where'er she moved — the welcome and the blessed ;- - Now gaze! and bear the silent unto rest. Look yet upon her, whose eye Meets yours no more, in sadness or in mirth! Was she not fair amid the sons of earth, The beings born to die? — 340 MOTHER'S GRAVE. But now where death has power, may love be blessed; Come near, and bear ye the beloved to rest. Yet mourn ye not as they Whose spirit's light is quenched! — for her the past Is sealed. She may not fall, she may not cast Her brightest hope away ; All is not here of our beloved and blessed — Leave ye the sleeper with her God to rest. 'T^HOU angel spirit, who so oft didst sing My infant cares to sleep upon thy breast, Let me but hear the rustling of thy wing, Around thy child its guardian influence fling! Oh, come thou from the islands of the blest, And bear my weary soul up to thy sainted rest! MOTHER'S GHAVE. 341 DEATH AND FUNERAL. T^HEN died lamented in the strength of life *" A valued mother. All her ties the strong invader broke, In all their strength, in one tremendous stroke ; Sudden and swift the eager pest came on, And terror grew till every hope was gone. Slowly they bore with solemn steps the dead, When grief grew loud, and bitter tears were shed. We left her in the silent grave alone. The mother we shall never cease to moan. Arrived at home, how then we gazed around. In every place where she no more was found ; The seat at table she was wont to fill ; The fireside chair, still set, but vacant still ; The garden-walks, a labor of her own ; The lattice bower, with trailing shrubs o'ergrown; The Sunday pew she filled with all her race ; — 34^ MOTHER'S GRAVE. Each place of hers was now a sacred place, That, while it called up sorrows in the eyes, Pierced the full heart and forced them still to rise. Oh, sacred sorrow by whom souls are tried, Sent not to punish mortals, but to guide ; Still let me feel for what the pangs are sent, And be my guide, and not my punishment. ly TY stricken heart to Jesus yields Love's deep devotion now ; Adores and blesses — while it bleeds His hand that strikes the blow. MOTHER'S GRAVE. 343 HALLOWED GROUND. /^OME unto the church-yard near, Where the gentle whispering breeze Softly rustleth through the trees ; Where the moonbeam pure and white, Falls in floods of cloudless light, Bathing many a turfy heap Where the lowlier slumberers sleep ; And the graceful willow waves, Banner-like, o'er many graves ; Here hath prayers arisen like dews, — - Here the earth is holy, too ; Lightly press each grassy mound ; Surely, this is hallowed ground. 344 MOTHER'S GRA VE, HEART-THROBS. — F. R. Anspach. "I TlSITS to the places where our departed repose are prompted by the instincts of humanity and the suggestions of love. They have been withdrawn from those circles which their presence made glad. Their voices mingle no more in the hymn of praise which rises around the family altar ; they are not of the num- ber which meet around the cheerful hearth, and in their retirement they claim from us an occasional visit to their graves. The remotest period in my history to which memory points is when, about five years of age, I was alone in the green lawn that stretches out before the home of my childhood, calling my sainted mother, and wondering why she did not answer my call and hasten to my side. And, were it permitted, would she not have withdrawn herself from her angel companions and winged her flight to the presence of her lonely child ? Yea, I know not but that she was present with me, and her gentle spirit may have held my thoughts in communion with her. It is a beautiful and consoling MOTHER'S GRAVE, 345 thought, and one certainly not in conflict with, but rather encouraged by, the teachings of inspiration, that we have our guardian angels to accompany us through life ; to minister to us in a way we know not ; yet defending us from the assaults of the tempter, and bearing us safely through the dangers which encompass the road in which we traveL God promised to Israel that his angel should guide and guard them through all their wanderings. And by whom, among the armies of those spirits around Jehovah's throne, would th^ office to guard and guide us be more fondly accepted, and more faithfully executed, than by those who have been removed from us, but who still love us? The doctrine concerning guardian angels, though perhaps not as clearly revealed as many others, yet has its foundation in that universality of belief which clothes any dogma with something of a divine sanc- tion. It may be regarded as belonging to that class of truths which enter into all creeds, because they have never been questioned, but always received the cheerful assent of the hearts and minds of all men. The Jews firmly believed that it was the prerogative of each one to 346 MO THER 'S GRA VR, be accompanied by an angel, whose office was to shield them from those destructive influences, physical and moral, by which they were surrounded. And the be- lief in guardian angels is equally general among Christians. And if the idea were even imaginary, and possessed nothrfi^ real in itself, it would still be well to cherish the belief for the sake of the influence which this persuasion exerts upon the mind. For by a law of nature, as powerful as it is sure in its operations, man becomes gradually identified with the fr elings and sen- timents of his companions, until he is altogether assim- ilated to their character. If we are continually asso- ciated with persons whose minds are cultivated, and whose characters are adorned with lofty virtues, we will perhaps imperceptibly, yet steadily, rise to that in- tellectual and moral elevation which they occupy, and ultimately be conscious of a perfect harmony of senti- ment, of taste and disposition with those who have at- tracted and molded our spirits into the image of their own. And in view of these results which the law of intercourse invariably produces, the persuasion of at- tendant spirits will necessarily exert an elevating and MOTHER'S GRAVE. 347 purifying influence upon us. Our intellectual and moral exercises will partake of the dignity and sanctity which are peculiar to those of angelic beings. And if to this we add the consideration that among those invisible ministers commissioned to guard us, there is one whom we fondly cherish; a sainted mother moving with us through this busy and bustling world ; hovering about our path by sea or by land, by day or by night, in public and in private, a spectator of all our actions and a witness of all our ways; will not this con- viction be a sleepless prompter to virtue, and a constant monitor to warn us against vice? Will not the felt nearness of some such beloved spirit animate us in every good work, and make us strong in every conflict? Is it at the grave of a beloved mother where we stand? My mother! O, what a world of thought, what ar ocean of bliss there is in this holy word ! Yes, he '"e sleeps my mother. She who forgot the anguish 3f her soul in her joy that I was born. She whose eyes were held waking over my infancy, when all others slumbered but the eye above. She whose lovr endered her perceptions so keen and far-sighted 348 MOTHER'S GRAVE. that she perceived and guarded me against dangers while they were yet distant. She who quieted my feeble cries on her gentle bosom. She who first bent over me in devout supplications. She whose last words were words of blessing, and whose angel spirit, as it rose from that couch of suffering to eternal mansions, shook from its wings the incense of prayer upon my head. Blessed holy one who lived in her child. Rejoiced when I was happy; was in anguish when I was pained. The first to know and to relieve my sorrows. The first to be interested in my childish prattle, and to guide my tot- tering footsteps. Dear departed one! shall I not here recall thy watchful care and unwearied love, and thank the Good Being who gave me such a treasure in thee? Such thoughts and feelings are fitting at such a place where a mother sleeps, and becoming those who can ap- preciate a mother's affection. For who that has en- joyed her care, and received her instructions, may not breathe out his soul in sentiments such as shine in the poem of Cowper, on the receipt of his mother j portrait? — " My mother! manhood's anxious brow And sterner cares have long been mine. MOTHER'S GRAVE, 34^ Yet turn I to thee fondly now, As when upon thy bosom's shrine My infant griefs were gently hushed to rest, And thy low whisper'd prayers my slumber blest. I've por'd o'er many a yellow page Of ancient wisdom, and have won, Perchance, a scholar's name — but sage Or bard have never taught thy son Lessons so dear, so fraught with holy truth. As those his mother's faith shed on his youth. " But, perhaps some of my readers may have had the misfortune, like the writer of these pages, to lose their mother before they could know her, or appreciate her worth. And O, what reflections are those of which we are conscious at her tomb ! If we could but recall her image, or the accents of her voice, or the thriUing touch of a mother's caresses ! Alas ! all this is denied to some, and there is nothing left to tell them how she looked ; for there were few pencils then employed to transfer the image of the living upon the canvas, and the sunbeam had not then learned to engrave likenesses upon the polished plate. Did I say there was nothing left to assist the imagination in the creation of her image ? O, yes ; every virtue which 350 MOTHER'S GRAVE. brightens our character was warmed into life by her love. For, although the seeds of those virtues which adorn our characters are divine, because they came from heaven, yet were they planted by a mother's hand and watered by a mother's tears ; and they have matured in our lives, because the eye of a covenant- keeping God rested upon her prayers, as chronicled in His book. O my beloved, my sainted mother ! Though 1 never looked upon thy face to know thee ; though not conscious at the time that it was the music of thy throbbing heart that lulled me into peaceful slum.bers ; though unknown to the sense of my sight, my spirit knows thee, and no human heart has ever thrilled with a holier love than mine for thee ! Yet again shall I be folded in thy embrace ; for thy tomb reminds me that I am mortal, and thy prayers have prevailed with God, for thy son is on his pilgrimage to Zion ; and when weary and wayworn on my journey, the thought that I shall know thee in heaven as my mother, animates me with new strength, and I press onwards to oui" blessed home on-high. MOTHER'S GRAVE. 351 THE REPOSE OF THE HOLY DEAD. n^HERE is no place where Christianity glows with such a divine lustre, and where its consolations are so precious and sublime, as at the grave where we commit a cherished one to rest. Its hopes loom out upon the gloom that oppresses the heart there as the sun when it bursts full-orbed through the dark storm- clouds which obscure the canopy of heaven. However much we may have pondered the mysteries of the gospel and appreciated its lessons, we can never under- stand its priceless value so fully as when its light bursts through our clouds of dark calamity, and spans them with the bow of promise, as its rays are reflected by our tears. We may have often heard and read the blessed announcement " that Christ brought life and immor- tality to light, " but there we feel it. We may have ad- mired that charming promise, " When thou goest through the waters I will be with thee, and through the rivers they shall not overflow thee ; when thou walkest through the fire thou shalt not be burnt, neither shall the flame kindle upon thee. For I am the 352 MOTHER'S GRAVE. Lord, thy God, the Holy One of Israel, thy Savior." But, ineffably more precious did we find this promise in our deep afflictions, when our souls felt the conscious presence and support of the everlasting arms under- neath us. As the rose gives out its most delicious fra- grance when it is crushed, so do the promises of God breathe their healing balm most effectually when pressed upon hearts broken with sorrow. DEATH IS NOTHING ! TT7HEN once we close our eyes in death, ^ ' And flesh and spirit sever ; When earth, and fatherland, and home. With all their beauty, sink in gloom — • Say, will it be forever ? Will we, in heaven, no more review Those scenes from which we sever ? Or will our recollections leap O'er death's dark gulf, at times, to keep With earth acquaintance ever ? — Page 353. THE VOICE FROM OVER THE RIVER. MOTHER'S GRAVE, 353 THE VOICE FROM OVER THE RIVER. —Ltllie E. Bart U/^OME back," we cry, and through the silent place ^ Of our bereaved homes, the echoes fall ; But yet returns no fair and shadowy face, In answer to our passionate recall. •'Come back," we cry, and o'er the river cold Send sore beseechings to the other shore ; And a sweet voice, heard from the days most old. Makes answer thus, **They will return no more. *' Never again ! The long and bitter strife Of the Eternal out of Time is o'er ; They have a fairer and a purer life. Call not the dead ; they will return no more." ** What comfort then?" ''That thou be patient here, In service faithful, in complainings dumb ; Then, o'er this river some day I shall hear Thy voice command — ' Go tell my dead I come.* " 354 MOTHER'S GRAVE. NO HOME. TT7HEN the honeysuckles bloomy And the wrens flutter o'er Their nest in the vine, As they have for years before, My heart flutters o'er A long-deserted nest, And cries out for home — Home and the rest. When wild roses shed their leaves O'er the rocks with moss o'ergrown, And I think of the summers That over them have flown, My heart would be a rose, To scatter, year by year, Its petals o'er the rock. Changeless and drear. When the night winds in the pines Sing their songs of the sea. MOTHER'S GRAVE. - 355 And I seem to be rocked As my mother rocked me, And dream I am lying Below the ground-bird's nest, With the pines above me sighing, In dreamless rest — 'Tis sweet to know a home Awaits me, so still, 'Neath shadows of leaves, On a breeze-haunted hill. There my mother's ashes lie, There on Mother Earth's breast^ My heart will find a home — - Home and rest. QHE was my friend — I had but her — no more No other upon earth — and as for heaven, I am as they that seek a sign, to whom No sign is given. My mother ! Oh, my mother ! 356 MOTHER'S GRAVB. "REQUIESCAT IN PACE.'* Sleep here in peace ! To earth's kind bosom do we tearful take thee ; No mortal sound from rest again shall wake thee ; No fever-thirst, no grief that needs assuaging, No tempest-burst above thy head loud-raging. Sleep here in peace 1 Sleep here in peace ! No more thou'lt know the sun's glad morning shining ; No more the glory of the day's declining ; No more the night that stoops serene above thee, Watching thy rest like tender eyes that love thee Sleep here in peace ! Sleep here in peace ! Unknown to thee the spring will come with blessing, The turf above thee in soft verdure dressing ! Unknown will come the autumn rich and mellow, Sprinkling thy couch with foliage golden yellow. Sleep here in peace ! MOTHER'S GRAVE, 357 Sleep here In peace! This is earth's rest for all her broken-hearted, Where she has garnered up our dear departed; The prattHng babe, the wife, the old man hoary, The tired of human life, the crowned with glory. Sleep here in peace! Sleep here in peace! This is the gate for thee to walk immortal ; This is the entrance to the pearly portal. The pathway trod by saints and sages olden, Whose feet shall walk Jerusalem the golden. Sleep here in peace! Sleep here in peace! Fear not on earth shall be man's rest eternal ; Faith's morn shall come. Each setting sun diurnal. Each human sleeping and each human waking, Hastens the day that shall on earth be breaking. Sleep here in peace! Sleep here in peace! Faith's morn shall come when He, our Lord and Maker, Shall claim his own that slumber in God's acre ; 358 MOTHER'S GRAV£, When He who once for man death's anguish tasted, Shall show'death's gloomy realm despoiled and wasted. Sleep here in peace! TT may be autumn, yea, winter, with the woman — but with the mother, as a mother, it is always spring. — Rev, Thomas Cobbett, i66^. T THINK it must somewhere be written that the vir- tues of mothers shall, occasionally, be visited on their children, as well as the sins of the fathers." — Dickens, TTER office then, to rear, to teach> Becoming as is meet and fit, A link among the days, to knit The generations each with each. — Tennys^M^ "^ . ^. "V ^ ^~^ ((9) I H neausn. i .■»! 4 — o^>^$%^^Sr^^>'i " I sit and think, when the sunset's gold Is flushing river and hill and shore, I shall one day stand by the water cold, And list to the sound of the boatman's oar ; I shall watch for a gleam of the snowy sail, I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand ; I shall pass from sight, with the boatman pale^ To the better shore of the spirit land. I shall know the loved who have gone before ; And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, When over the river, the peaceful river, The angel of death shall carry me. " UpA 360 THE ANGEL OF THE HOUSE. WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR THIS BOOK. Susan E. Wallace {Mrs. Gen. Lew. Wallace). T TAIN is any attempt to measure the loss of a mother to her little children ; after all the poets have sung and lovers dreamed, outside of heaven there is no love like mother-love. We believe the tender care devoted to those nearest and dearest, went with her to the better land, and in the possibilities of eternity, may be needed hereafter. We fancy her awaiting them in the place prepared for her, a little apart from the innumerable company in bright array ; perhaps in one of the " palaces of ivory, Its windows crystal clear,'* of which old Bonar quaintly sung. In the light, not of the sun, neither of the moon, we see her beyond the fields of fadeless asphodel, under the waving palms, beside the still waters bordered with silver lilies. These may be merely figures, but they bear a precious meaning to yearning hearts made for the deep household loves ; hearts that will not be comforted because the Angel of the House is missing. 361 362 MO THER 'S HOME IN HEA VBN. OUR FUTURE HOME. TTEAVEN is the central point of the universe of God. If we are allowed to reason from analogy on a subject like this, we might make out more than a plausible or probable proof. If we examine any thing that is systematically arranged, we shall discover that it contains some controlling principle or power, which governs the entire structure ; so that every system has a central point to which all that forms a part of it tends. It is to the center of the earth that all the things within the range of our atmosphere gravitate. And in like manner all the planetary systems have their central suns, around which they perform their revolu- tions. And if so, is it not a warrantable conclusion, that God, whose controlling energy fills the universe, has chosen the center of his vast dominions as his own appropriate residence, where he will perpetually reside with all his saints ? The opinion certainly commends itself to our judgment, and also falls in with the gor- geous imagery of Scripture, which throws an ineffable splendor around the abode of the righteous. But if we MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAi^EN. 363 are left to conjecture in regard to the particular location of that " house of many mansions," prepared for the redeemed, we are not left in doubt as to the nature and employments of the place. And here I would remark, that we have abundant reason to believe, from the many declarations of Scrip- ture as to the appearance and structure of the place, that it is invested with a lofty physical grandeur. Ad- mitting that it is a place, and keeping in view the object for which it was provided, and the resources and skill of the Architect of the structure, we would natur- ally conceive it to be possessed of exalted excellence. The monarch who wields the sceptre of earthly empire, does not make his largest expenditures upon the im- provement of his provinces and cities farthest from the seat of royalty; on the contrary, the style and structure of his palace, and the adornments of the imperial city, will share more largely in his munificence than any other portions of his dominions. The place where the powers of government reside, and the interests of state are shaped, is generally made attractive, and in most instances honored with higher decorations than any 364 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. other. And is it not our privilege to believe that the home which the Ruler of the universe has fitted up for his children, will be clothed with a more excellent glory than any other part of His dominions? Such an infer- ence is not more natural than we believe it to be just ; for the imagery which inspiration employs to represent Heaven, is always of a glowing character. Our Savior himself speaks of it under the idea of a vast structure containing many apartments. " In my Father's house are many mansions ; it it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you." And if he who fashioned the heavens and the earth has fitted up that abode, will it not correspond with the character of his other works? And are not all his creations beauti- ful? There is a beauty in the winged cloud and in the circling wave! There is a beauty in the setting sun, and in the dawn of day ! There is beauty in the warbling streamlet and its spotted tribes! There is beauty in the forest, in the field, in the dew-drop, and in the ocean! Look out upon the earth, and see! Is it not beautiful, though it rests under the curse? With what a ravishing glory does it roll forth to our view, MO THER ' S HOME IN HE A VEN. 365 clothed in that rich and varied robe which nature puts on in spring. Behold the mountains and continents, rivers and seas, all are arrayed with a grandeur that delights and charms the observer. But if the glorious Maker of all things has given so many visible displays of his power and goodness, and clothed with glory the sun, the moon, and the stars, and covered the whole creation with so many visible beauties, may we not rest confidently assured that the home of his chosen ones is invested with a transcendent glory? His own presence will make it glorious beyond conception. For while his glory beams from every star, and shines in every sun, and is sung in every anthem of nature, all the brightness, goodness, and excellence scattered through the universe are only rays or emanations which have gone out from him, as the infinite center of all that is lovely and glorious. The physical glory of the place may also be inferred from the names by which it is known. Heaven is called the Paradise of God. The Eden where Adam and Eve dwelt when garnished with a rare excellence. A garden watered by four rivers, adorned with flowers 366 MO THER 'S HOME IN HE A VEN. and fountains, and peopled with every object that could excite pleasurable emotions ; and yet it was only an emblem of our future home. The apostle John de- scribes the New Jerusalem as a city built of the most costly materials. " Its foundations were garnished with all manner of precious stones, and with walls of jasper. " "A city of pure gold, and with gates of solid pearls. " " And the glory of the nations was brought into it." " And a river of water clear as crystal flow- ing from the throne of God. " " And in the midst of the street thereof, and on either side of the river, was there the tree of life, which bare twelve manner of fruits, and yielded her fruit every month ; and the leaves thereof were for the healing of the nations. " " And there shall be no night there." And thus also, in all the other inspired books where heaven is spoken of, do we find it represented under the most brilliant emblems. The material creation is laid under contribution for images descriptive of the physical grandeur of that blessed abode. And who can doubt that the most sub- lime and gorgeous figures will fall short of the reality? Nay, its blessedness and glory will far transcend even MO THER 'S HOME IN HE A VEJST, 367 the high-wrought imagery of Inspiration. For how- ever well-conceived and graphic any representation of it may be, the figure is but a shadow, and can never rise to a full conception of the object which it is de- signed to image. Could the pencil of Raphael have transferred the living grandeur of Niagara upon the canvas? Can any artist paint an evening sunset with its appropriate gorgeousness and the mellowing beauty of its vanishing glories? And if not, why should it appear marvelous that the glowing descriptions of heaven cannot adequately or fully acquaint us with its actual perfections. The skill and resources of Jehovah have been laid out upon it. Man has constructed ele- gant palaces, and wrought many attractive things ; but God did not commit the preparation of that mansion to man or angels, but his own hand has fashioned it ; and, therefore, it is doubtless true even of the physical ex- cellencies of the home of the pure that " eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard; neither hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive what God hath laid up for those who love him." But the future home of Christians is also possessed 368 MO THER ' S HOME IN HE A VEN. of a moral glory. It is an abode of spotless purity. This holiness of heaven is represented under the image of light. Light is the only material substance that is altogether pure. Gold is not perfectly free from impur- ities ; and the gems which sparkle in the imperial crown are not as pure as the sunbeams which they reflect. Light may pass through an impure medium, and fall upon the stagnant and foul pool without being tar- nished. And since it is not only perfectly pure, but warms and illumes the world, it is used as an image of piety and holiness. And as the purity and the blessings of light made it a fit emblem in the estimation of inspired writers to represent the nature and effects of religion, so also for the same reason is it appropriately used to describe the purity and felicity of heaven. Hence it is written, " And there shall be no night there." No physical night, no darkness, shall ever mantle the celestial fields ; no intellectual night, no errors of judgment, no fallacious conclusions of the reasoning faculties. But above all, there will be no moral night. All the angels are holy. And as to the saints, they are like Christ ; MOTHER'S HOME IN HEA VEN. 369 bearing his image, and reflecting his glorious holiness, as the planets reflect the light of the sun. " He is able to present you faultless before the presence of his glory with exceeding joy. " '* Then, " said the Savior, " shall the righteous shine forth as the sun in the kingdom of the Father. " " They that be wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament, and as the stars forever and ever. " " They shall walk with me in white, for they are worthy. " " The sufl-erings of this present time," says the apostle, "are not worthy to be compared to the glory which shall be revealed in us. " These and many other passages represent to us the hoHness of the saints. They are holy as God is holy. And what an inconceivable moral splendor must, therefore, clothe that heavenly world ! What a dignity and glory would cover the earth, were all its inhabitants morally pure! But alas! it is not so here; for this world is a moral waste, with here and there a flower waked into bloom by the quickening power of Divine grace. This earth is a land of storms and tempests, of tears and woes. Here we groan, being burdened with many imperfec- tions, and oppressed with many trials. One calamity 370 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. after another sweeps with desolating power over those cherished spots where we rejoiced in the light of earthly prosperity ; and we move about in that circle once radiant with joys, and vocal with voices forever hushed on earth, and fill it with our lamentations, and water it with our tears. Here we are continually reminded of the evil of sin, and the miseries with which it embitters life. But yonder we shall have passed beyond the reach of its influence ; for in that home of bliss there is no curse, no sin, no sorrow, no death. It is also ahappy and glorious home. There, there is perfect harmony, and, therefore, perfect peace. No disturbing element can enter there to conflict with our happiness. Here we are never secure against those numerous external evils and internal corruptions which mar our tranquillity and disturb the peace of our souls. But as all those influences which agitate and afflict our spirits are caused by sin, and as in heaven we shall be perfectly holy, we shall also be perfectly happy. And besides the absence of all disturbing causes and jarring elements, the saints are also in possession of all that MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 371 can possibly contribute to the enjoyment of a rational being. But it is also a glorious home in view of the society of the place, and the relations they sustain to each other. The apostles speak of heaven as a house, a city, a commonwealth, or association of believers. " For we know that if our earthly house of this taber- nacle were dissolved, we have a building of God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens." Among the elements which will enter into our happiness in that blessed home, the employments in which we shall engage will constitute a large item. To me it has always seemed an erroneous supposition that the activities of the saints are wholly taken up in acts of praise and contemplations of the prefections of Deity. That these exercises will enter largely into their occupations is morally certain ; but that they are the only and exclusive employments does not appear prob- able. There are many other methods besides this con- templation through which the excellency of the divine character may be discovered and admired. The history of creation will be an absorbing theme of interest and 372 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. study. For with it are associated the grandeur, the might, the wisdom, and goodness of God. The extent and duration of his kingdom and being, the profundity of his counsels, and the sublimity of his power and glory, are all brought under review in the volume of creation. Communications from those sons of light who were spectators of that event may be imparted to the saints. And add to this the fact that God will throw open to the inspections of his children the entire universe, and permit them to visit all the worlds that move in cloudless majesty through his vast dominions, and what sublime lessons will the mind learn as it sweeps over that field of immensity, studded with the magnificent creations of Jehovah ! If the cultivated mind already derives its most exalted pleasures from devout astronomical studies, will it not experience in- finitely greater delight, then, in viewing the motions and listening to the melodies of the spheres ? And as the grandeur of God's creations was the frequent theme of prophets and inspired writers in general, and as nothing which they have written impresses the mind with a livelier sense of the might and majesty of the MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN, 373 great Architect than their allusions to, and descriptions of, the vast materialism which He has fashioned, so is it reasonable to infer that our impressions of the great- ness of Jehovah will be proportionably increased as our conceptions of the extent and magnificence of His empire will be enlarged. We cherish it, then, as a precious conviction, that those heavens into whose holy depths our eyes have so often and admiringly peered, will become accessible to our spirits, and that it will be our privilege to survey and explore all the worlds with which they are peopled, as we now do the earth upon which we dwell. Then our heavenly home will abide forever — it is eternal. This is its crowning excellence. That which greatly depreciates the value of the most desirable earthly possessions, and honors, and distinctions, is their liability to pass away; yea, the inevitable destruc- tion which awaits them. Decay and death are im- printed upon all things. Among the properties which enter into the constitution of earthly objects, we neither find permanence nor indestructibihty. God has im- pressed mutability upon all the works of man. No 374 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. magnificent city that he has built, no stately pile nor towering pyramid which his genius has planned and his industry has executed, but hath either crumbled into a heap of ruin, or has upon it the marks of decay. No, not the most costly and durable monument of marble or of brass will remain exempt from this inevi- table doom. Man himself is an illustration of this frailty of human things; " for his days are as the grass, as a flov/er of the field he flourisheth; for the wind passeth over it, and it is gone, and the place that knew it shall know it no more forever. " " Our fathers, where are they?" " And the prophets, do they live forever?" Alas! what millions have gone down into the tomb, and what precious treasures does this earth hold over to the resurrection morn! Look, we are at our fire- sides and households; our families are growing less. " Friend after friend departs, Who has not lost a friend! " The most lovely and happily-conditioned family has germinating within it, the seeds of death and disso- lution. But the Christian dies but once, and dying, lives forever. We can stand by our deserted family MOTHER 'S HOMK IN HEA VEN. 375 altars, and desolate hearths, and look up to our future glorious home, already occupied by our sainted friends, and rejoice, that decay and blight never fall upon the Christian's home in heaven. No, it is permanent. Its foundations are laid in the immutability of Jehovah — its walls are immortal- ity, its gates praise, and its day eternity. There it stands in its peerless glory, the metropolis of the uni- verse, luminous with the light of God. And amid all the changes which may sweep with desolating power over thrones and kingdoms, it will stand radiant with salvation, and remain unshaken and unimpaired, amid — " The wreck of matter And the crash of worlds." And may not those who have furnished inmates for that glorious home — who have watched by the pillow of the dying whom they loved, until their spirits took wing for that place of rest, derive comfort from the assurance that they are supremely blest ! O, you would not, if you could, my bereaved brother, or sis- ter, silence one of the harps of heaven by bringing 376 MO THER ' S H OME IN HE A VEN. back the spirit whose hand sweeps it to the praise of the Redeemer! Nay, the more you contemplate the glory of that home, and the blessedness of its occu- pants, the more you will become reconciled to the most painful bereavements ; while the hope of entering there will excite you to unremitted diligence to obtain that purity of heart, without which we cannot see God. Aged disciple, thou art near thy home ; and oh, such a home! Labor patiently, thou man of toil, and wait calmly, for thy Redeemer draweth nigh! Weary, afflicted, desolate one, drink the cup which a Father's hand gives, for thy night of sorrow is fast passing away; for behold, the dawn of an eternal day of glory is now breaking. MOTHER'S HOME IN HE A VEN, 377 THE MOUNTAINS OF LIFE. •—James G. Clark, HTHERE'S a land far away, mid the stars, we are told, Where they know not the sorrows of time ; Where the pure waters wander through valleys of gold, And life is a treasure sublime ; Tis the land of our God, 'tis the home of the soul, Where ages of splendor eternally roll ; — Where the way-weary traveler reaches his goal On the evergreen mountains of life. Our gaze cannot soar to that beautiful land, But our visions have told of its bliss. And our souls by the gale from its gardens are fanned When we faint in the deserts of this. And we sometimes have longed for its holy repose, When our spirits were torn with temptations and woes, And we've drank from the tide of the river that flows From the evergreen mountains of life. 378 MO TITER 'S HOME IN HE A VEN, O ! the stars never tread the blue heavens at night But we think where the ransomed have trod ; And the day never smiles from its palace of light But we feel tne bright smile of our God. We are traveling homeward through changes and gloom, To a kingdom where pleasures unchangingly bloom, And our guide is the glory that shines through the tomb From the evergreen mountains of life. HEREAFTER. 'T^IS sweet to think hereafter, When the spirit leaves this sphere. Love on deathless wings shall waft her To those she long hath mourned for here ! Hearts from which 'twas death to sever, Eyes this world can ne'er restore. There as warm, as bright as ever, Shall meet us and be lost no more. MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN, 37g THE HOME OVER THERE. — Z>. W. D. Huntington, /^H, think of the home over there, By the side of the river of hght, Where the saints all immortal and fair, Are robed in their garments of white! Oh, think of the friends over there, Who before us the journey have trod. Of the songs that they breathe on the air, In their home in the palace of God! I'll soon be at home over there, For the end of my journey I see ; Many dear to my heart, over there, Are watching and waiting for me. 38o MO THER ' S HOME IN HE A VEN. "HOME IS WHERE MOTHER IS." TT7HEN the toils and cares of the day are over, and the children are at home from school, then comes the most delightful hour to the family circle. The outside world is dismissed, and father, and mother, and children are together in sweet communion and un- shaken trust. There is no vacant chair. There is not a face missing. Death has never visited this home. The hour of retiring comes, and blessed with father's instructions and mother's prayers, the little group retire for the night. May it not be that angels hover over such a home during the silent watches. But sickness comes. The mother is prostrated ; a physician is called, but he gives no hope. Friends gather about the bed and look sadly on while the mother passes through the valley and shadow of death. The dreadful hour is over at last, and she is dead. Night comes on again, and a lonely watch is kept. How changed this home! What now is the " evening hour," and what must it be in all time to come? Little children know no one so dear as mother ; y-i^-^ Bl°MC.RtNl)ro4. &r<56>-^' There's a land far away, 'mid. the stars, -we are told. Where they kno-w not the sorro-ws of time. MO THER ' S HOME IN HE A VEN. 381 they long for none so much, and even up to adult age — ." Mother, dear mother, my heart calls for you! " The beautiful carrier-pigeons dart through the air like arrows at the rate of forty miles an hour, " going home. " The little bird is a dear lover of home, and perils everything to get there. And so with all human kind — " There is no place like home ; Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home." And when from the family circle the mother is called away, the hearts of the children naturally turn toward that land where — " Sickness, sorrow, pain, and death Are felt and feared no^more." And however much they may shrink at " death's alarms," their is a strong feehng that henceforth " their home " is in heaven. " I am going home to die no more," was her parting blessing to her loved ones. " A home in heaven. What a joyful thought! " When mother is dead, and father is dead, and the family are scattered, there can be but one hope 382 MO THER 'S HOME IN HE A VEN. and expectation of a family reunion. The manliness and dignity, and industry of the father are things never to be forgotten, and his counsels have saved us many a blunder, but — " No love like mother-love, Ever was known." And at that future family reunion we hope for, mother will be nearest and dearest of all. Many a motherless and homeless child strays front the paths of right. No one knows so well as a mothej how to guide the little feet. How lone and sad the motherless child; with, perhaps, no home, and no abiding friendships, or love, " in all the land," the heart at last turns towards — " The home of the soul. Where mother is waiting and watching. " Like the uncaged carrier-bird, the soul longs for home. Mrs. Sigourney vividly portrays a scene where a little girl is passing through the dark valley and shadow of death — " She told her faith in Jesus — Her simple prayer was said ; MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 383 And now that darkened vail she trod Which leadeth to the dead. "* Yet mid the gasp and struggle, With shuddering lips she cried * O mother, dearest mother, Bury me by your side ! ' " One only wish she uttered, While life was ebbing fast, * Sleep by my side, dear mother, And rise with me at last.' " Death itself seemed unable to separate them. Her thoughts, and feelings, and hopes were all of her mother ; and the gloom of the grave and fear of the future were overshadowed in the comforting thought that mother would go along through it all, and would, ** Rise with me at last." Home is where mother is, let that be among — " The sepulchres of our departed," or in — " The far-away home of the soul. " As the carrier-dove soars aloft, and surveys " The landscape o'er," 384 MO THER'S HOME IN HE A VEN. and then speeds away home, so many a 3oved, and weary, and afflicted one gladly leaves — " This land of sin and sorrow," for mother's home beyond the stars. What delig"ht in that thought, and that rapturous hope, as it brightens into fruition, and the heart cries out — " Oh, joyfully sweet will the meeting be, When over the river, the beautiful river. The angel of death shall carry me. " "THERE IS A WORLD ABOVE." ^HERE is a world above, ^ Where parting is unknown ; A long eternity of love, Formed for the good alone ; And faith beholds the dying here, Translated to that glorious sphere. MOTHER 'S HOME IN HEA VEN, 385 TO MY MOTHER. — Noah W. Parker. 'INHERE lives and dwells in mansions far Beyond the ken of erring mortals, A soul whose virtues, like a star Resplendent, shine beyond their portals. A soul so loving, kind and fair — To me more dear than every other — Who blest me with her latest prayer, And answered to the name of Mother. The joys and griefs of childhood born, She shared with all a mother's fervor; My joys were jewels in her crown. My griefs, her clouds of sadness ever. For all my faults she made excuse, My merits praised o'er every other ; She screened me from the world's abuse. And taught me to adore — my Mother. 386 MO THER ' 6- HOME IN HE A VEN, When youth, with its ambitious fires, Had nerved my soul to j^rand endeavor, She cherished all my high desires. And checked each gross outcropping ever. At times, when evil took command, And worldly lusts the good would smother, No other, with the helping hand, So quickly came to save, as Mother. How oft my wayward steps have torn That loving heart, and been forgiven ; How oft my chidings she has borne, Is known but in the courts of heaven. In heedless folly oft I've trod O'er her fond heart, to please another. While she would humbly ask her God To pardon me, as would my Mother. When manhood's years and business cares At last compelled a separation, She followed with her fondest prayer, My every step and avocation. MOTHER'S HOME IN HE A VEN. 387 And then, as in my childhood's years, A dearer friend than worldly brother, She shared my joys and anxious cares, As none can do, except a Mother. If I could live my life again. And hath both wealth and wordly power, And it would cause her heart one pain Or drive her from me for an hour, I'd give up all of wordly good, Its pomp, its crowns, its giddy bother, To prove to thee my gratitude — My dearest, sun-crowned, angel Mother. The sons and daughters of our race Can never know, till death has taken The mother from their fond embrace, How great their loss, or how forsaken. She molds the mind for cares of state. She teaches man to love his brother. And through the greatest of the great She still remains a loving Mother. 388 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN, If aught of truth my life has shown, Or aught of manhood's high endeavor, I owe it to that angel one Who gave me life and loved me ever. She left her sons and daughters all A life whose years surpassed each other. In all the noble traits that fall Upon the sacred name of Mother. Pile to the clouds the stones of fame, For heroes who will live in story, And grave on each the honored names Of those who fill the cup of glory; But higher still, and brighter far, A name will shine o'er every other — That dearest, sweetest monitor — That race-upbuilding name of Mother. ]>3 the culcivation of the minds and hearts of women depend the welfare and the happiness of the race. -—Mrs. Sigouritey, MO THER'S HOME IN HE A VEN, 389 MEMORIES. — Horace P. Biddle. T HAD a mother ; but ere six summer's suns Had kissed my boyish locks she was no more. Thus gone my guide when life had just begun, And I too young my guardian to deplore ; Yet memory wanders back to days of yore, And finds one tender place no time can hide, 'Tis deeply printed in my bosom's core ; 'Twas when she faintly called me to her side, Kissf.'d my wet cheek, begged blessings on her boy, and diedl T^HE tender smile, The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace, The woman's soul and the angel's face. That are beaming on me all the while — She is my mother. 39© MO THER' S HOME IN HE A VEN. CHANGED HARMONIES. ^Rev. James W. Mills. T^AIR faces beaming round the household hearth, Young, joyous tones in melody of mirth, The sire doubly living in his boy, And she, the crown of all that wealth of joy, — These make the home like some sweet lyre, given To sound on earth the harmonies of heaven. A sudden discord breaks the swelling strain, One cord has snapped ; the harmony again Subdued and slower moves, but never more Can pour the same glad music as of yore ; Less and less full the strains successful wake. Chord after chord must break, and break, and break Until the earthly lyre, dumb and riven. Finds all its chords restrung to loftier notes in heaven. MO THER'S HOME IN HE A VEN, 39 1 HOME AND HEAVEN. — yoseph Very, TiriTH the same letter, heaven and home begin, And the words dwell together in the mind ; For they who would a home in heaven win Must first a heaven in home begin to find. Be happy here, yet with a humble soul That looks for perfect happiness in heaven ; For what thou hast is earnest of the whole Which to the faithful shall at last be given. As once the patriarch in a vision blessed, Saw the swift angels hastening to and fro, And the lone spot whereon he lay to rest Became to him the gate of heaven below; So may to thee, when life itself is done. Thy home on earth and heaven above be one. 392 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. CROSSING OVER. TT may be that the loved of our homes who have gone on before are watching and waiting for us, and that when the hour of death shall come, they will not be far away. There are man}^ events that have transpired at death's door illustrating and proving this beautiful thought. It is no inconsiderable thing for a suffering child to believe that a sainted mother will be near when death comes. Mother's name is the dearest of all earthly names, and in the saddest hours of life the child turns to her. I was at the bedside of a suffering woman, years ago, and although she was her- self a wife and mother, when the gloom of death gath- ered around her, she called aloud for her own sainted mother. " Mother, dear mother, my heart calls for you! " And so when death comes, mother is dearer, and perhaps nearer, than any other one we have ever known. And when we approach Jordan's brink, she will be there to go with us over. This thought is illustrated by the following truthful and touching incident : — " A little girl, a lovely and precious child, lost her MOTHER'S HOME IN HE A VEN. 393 mother at an age too early to fix the loved features in her remembrance. She was as frail as beautiful ; and as the bud oi her heart unfolded, it seemed as if, won by her mother's prayers, to turn instinctively heaven- ward. She was the idol of the family ; but she faded away early. She would lie upon the lap of a friend who bestowed a mother's kind care upon her, and winding one wasted arm about her neck, would say, 'Now tell me about my mamma.' And when the oft-repeated tale was told, she would say softly, ' Take me into the parlor; I want to see my mamma.* The request was never refused, and the affectionate child would lie for hours contentedly gazing on her mother's portrait. But — " Pale and wan she grew, and weakly, Bearing all her pains so meekly, That to them she still grew dearer, As the trial-hour grew nearer." " That hour came at last, and the weeping friends assembled to see the little child die. The dew of death was already on the flower as its life's sun was going down. The little chest heaved spasmodically. ' Do you know me, darling ? ' sobbed the voice that was dearest ; but it awoke no answer. All at once a bright- 394 MOTHER'S HOME W HE A VEN. ness, as if from the upper world, burst over the child's colorless features. The eyelids flashed open, the lips parted, the wan, cuddling hands flew up in the little one's last impulsive effort, as she looked piercingly into the far-above. * Mother ! * she cried with surprise and transport, and passed with that breath to her mother's bosom. " When my final farewell to the world I have said, And gladly lie down to my rest ; When softly the watchers shall say, * He is dead,' And fold my pale hands o'er my breast ; And when with my glorified vision at last The walls of that city I see, Will any one then, at the beautiful gate. Be watching and waiting for me ? There are old and forsaken who linger a while In the homes that their dearest have left, And a few gentle words or an action of love May cheer their sad spirits bereft ; But the reaper is near to the long-standing corn, The weary will soon be set free ; Will any of them, at the beautiful gate, Be watching and waiting for me ? '* MOTHER'S HOME IN HE A VEN. 395 MY MOTHER AT THE GATE. r\ THERE'S many a lovely picture On memory's silent wall, There's many a cherished image That I tenderly recall The sweet home of my childhood, With its singing brooks and birds ; The friends who grew beside me, With their loving looks and words ; The flowers that decked the wildwood, The roses fresh and sweet, The bluebells and the daisies, That blossomed at my feet ; All, all are very precious. And often come to me, Like breezes from a better land, Beyond life's troubled sea, But the sweetest, dearest picture That memory can create, 396 MOTHER'S HOME IN HE A VEN. Is the image of my mother, My mother at the gate. It is there I see her standing, With her face so pure and fair, With the sunlight and the shadows On her snowy cap and hair ; I can feel the soft warm pressure Of the hand that clasped my own * I can see the look of fondness That in her blue eyes shone ; I can hear her parting blessing Through the lapse of weary years; I can see through all my sorrows Her own sweet, silent tears. Ah! amid the darkest trials That have mingled with my fate, I have turned to that dear image, My mother at the gate. But she has crossed the river, She is with the angels now ; MOTHER'S HOME IN HE A VEN. 397 She has laid aside earth's crosses, And the crown is on her brow ; She is clothed in clean white linen, And she walks the streets of gold. O, loved one, safe forever, Within the Savior's fold, No sorrowing thoughts can reach thee, No grief is thine to-day ; God gives thee joy for mourning, Thy tears are wiped away, They are waiting in that city Where the saints and angels wait, And I'll know thee, dearest mother, When I reach the Pearly Gate. — Anonymous. 398 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEA VEN. MY MOTHER. ■ — Belle Bush. 1\ TY mother's a beautiful spirit, and her home is the Holy Evangels ; There she feels neither sorrow nor pain, and treads not the path of the weary. Years ago, in the bud of my being, I knew her a radi- ant mortal, But the house of her soul decayed, and she fled from the crumbling mansion, And over the sea of eternity, bridged by the hands of the angels, Uniting the links of belief, with the golden chain of repentance. She passed with the torch of prayer, to the opposite shore in safety, When crowned with the garlands cf love, she mounted the steps of the city. Angels of mei'cy and truths keeping watch at th^ heavenly portals, MOTHER'S HOME IN HE A VEN. 399 Behold her approach from afar, and flung open the pearly partitions ; With son^s and loud hallelujahs, they welcomed the earth-ransomed stranger. And guided her steps, till she stood on the brink of the life-giving fountain, Where tasting its lethean waters, all the joys of the world were forgotten. Save the beautiful bloom of the soul — the love in the heart of the mother. This, the light of her life upon earth, now budded and blossomed in heaven ; Stately and fair it towered, and the hues of its leaves were immortal ; Strong tendrils grew out from each bough, and twmed round the cords of her spirit, While the zephyrs of Paradise played, and toyed with the delicate branches, Till each leaf like a sharp-string swayed, and murmured in strains ^olian, And often in musical numbers reminded the wondering mother 400 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. Of the flowers she had left in the desert — her weary and sorrowing children. In their half-open leaflets she reads the pledge of her glorious mission, And rejoices that her love should gather those earth buds to her bosom. The angels beheld her in gladness rise up on those radiant pinions Which float on the air like a sunbeam, and rival the dove in their fleetness. Oh, my mother's a beautiful spirit, and her home is the Holy Evangels ; But she comes on her soft floating pinions to look for her earth-born children. Slie comes, and the hearts that were weary no longer remember their sorrow In their joy that the lost is returned, our beloved and radiant mother ; She comes, and our spirits rejoice, for wc know she's our guardian angel. MOTHER-' S HOME IN HE A VEN. 401 O'er our journey in life keeping watch, and giving us gentle caresses. She comes, she comes with the light that opens the gate of the morning ; Her robes are of delicate pink, sweet emblem of holy affection — And her voice is our music by night, of perils and storms giving warning — Ai-2d twined o'er her radiant brow are the amaranth- -"blossoms of heaven. She smiles, and the light of her smiles bringeth joy in our seasons of darkness ; She whispers, and soft are the zephyrs that echo her musical numbers, As they waft o'er the chords of our being her thrilling and fervent emotions. We listen to her in our sorrow, and yield to each gentle impression, Till pleasant to us is the path leading down to the rushing river ; O'er the swift rolling current of death we shall pass to the homes of the spirits, 402 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. And waiting beside the still waters, our mother will be there to greet us ; With songs she will welcome our coming, and fold us to rest on her bosom, And teach us, like hsping children, to murmur the lan- guage of heaven! Oh, my mother's a beautiful spirit, and her home is the Holy Evangels, But she comes on the pinions of love to watch her sor- rowing children ; She comes, and the shadows depart, as we thrill to her gentle caresses. Our Father in Heaven, we bless thee, that our mother's our Guardian Angel! -Payt A holy hush pervades my heart With a mysterious power. • MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 403 THE SPIRIT MOTHER. — Susan Pindar, A RT thou near me, spirit mother, When in the twilight hour, A holy hush pervades my heart With a mysterious power ; While eyes of dreamy tenderness Seem gazing into mine, And stir the fountains of my soul, — Sweet mother, are they thine? Is thine the blessed influence That o'er my being flings A sense of rest, as though 'twas wrapped Within an angel's wings? A deep abidii>g trustfulness. That seems an earnest given Of future happiness aud peace To those who dwell in heaven. -And often when my footsteps stray In error's shining track. There comes a soft restraining voice, 404 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEA VEN", That seems to call me back ; I hear it not with outward ears, But with a power divine Its whisper thrills my inmost soul, Sweet mother, is it thine? It well may be, for know we not That beings all unseen Are ever hovering o'er our paths, The earth and sky between? They're with us in our daily walks, And tireless vigils keep To weave those happy fantasies That bless our hours of sleep! Oh, could we feel that spirit eyes Forever on us gaze, And watch each idle thought that threads The heart's bewildering maze ; Would we not guard each careless word. All sinful feelings quell, Lest we should grieve the cherished ones We loved on earth so well? .— -^(^e^^^^Tl I I ) T^^^s.^CT^— i^^^\T7?^^^ fieart Echoes (405) -^=^^y|^^r=£_3 Oh, days long past ! Oh, years afar • What whisperings thou dost bring i^y"^ * / {406) HEAR7^ ECHOES. 407 THE USE OF TEARS. —By Lord M»rpeth. T)E not thy tears too harshly chid, Repine not at the rising sigh; — Who, if they might, would always bid The breast be still, the cheek be dry? How little of ourselves we know Before a grief the heart has felt; The lessons that we learn of woe May brace the mind, as well as melt. The energies too stern for mirth. The reach of thought, the strength of will, 'Mid cloud aiid tempest have their birth. Through blight and blast their course fulfill. 'Tis only when it mourns and fears The loaded spirit feels forgiven, And through the mist of falling tears We catch the surest glimpse of heaven. 4o8 HEART ECHOES. Tears at each pure emotion flow; They wait on Pity's gentle claim, On Admiration's fervid glo\v, On Piety's seraphic flame. Love's perfect triumph never crown'd The hope unchecker'd by a pang; The gaudiest wreaths with thorns are bound, And Sappho wept before she sang. THE ROAD TO WISDOM. — Buhver. A'TNE times out of ten it is over the bridge of sighs that we pass the narrovv^ gulf from youth to maturity. That interval is usually occupied by an ill-placed or disappointed affection. \Vc recover, and find ourselves a new being. The intellect has become hardened by the fire through which it has passed. The m.ind profits by the wreck of every passion, and we may measure our road to wisdom by the sorrows we have undergone. HEART ECHOES. 409 REMEMBERING MOTHER. TT7HEN Lydia Newman's old Quaker uncle saw that she had fastened her pretty little Newport ties with poppy-red ribbons he frowned and told her it was not seemly. But Lydia laughed. " I don't care for them myself," she said, " but I want my little boy to remember that his mother wore red bows on her shoes." Who does not remember the pretty things that "mother" wore .-^ Her dainty laces, the pale lilac dresses, the rose tucked under the lace on her breast, seem half divine when they become but mem- ories to us. **Mother" is "mother," be she gentle or rough; but what a different ideal we have when we recall how proud we were when we brought our friends home from, school and rather sui-prised them with her graceful, pretty ways. Her hair was so soft, her eyes so tender, she talked so well and knew how to make a boy feel at home. It was not necessary to make excuses for her and say she was so busy. The other boys themselves praised her, and we felt sorry for them, because we knew they must feel how much 410 HEART ECHOES. sweeter and prettier she was than their mothers could be. It is wise for a mother to take time to dress and be fair in her children's eyes; to read for their sake; to learn to talk and to live in to-day. The circle the mother draws around her is more wholesome for the child than the one he has to iiake for himself, and she is responsible for his social surroundings. It is not easy to be the child's most interesting compan- ion and to make home his strongest magnet, but the mothers who have done this have been mothers of good men. TTOW many there are who look back regretfully to the days of their childhood, and wish they were boys again. That seems to them the happiest portion of human life — so free from cares, so buoy- ant in spirits, so easily satisfied with its little sports and pastimes. As they think of those happy days, they almost wish they could always have remained children. Such persons surely indulge but lowly as- pirations, and but petty views of what constitutes happiness for rational beings. Childhood is indeed beautiful in its season ; but chiefly so in its rela- tions to the after years. HEAR T E CITOES. 41 1 HOME INFLUENCE. — Talmage. \ GOOD home Is deathless ixi Its Influence. Par- ents may be gone. The old homestead may be sold and have passed out of the possession of the family. The house itself may be torn down. The meadow brook that ran in front of the house may have changed its course or have dried up. The long line of old-fashioned sun flowers and the hedges of wild rose may have been graded, and in place thereof are now the beauties of modern gardening. The old poplar tree may have cast down its crown of verdure and may have fallen. You say you would like to go back a little while and see that home, and you go, and, oh, how changed It is! Yet that place will never lose Its charm over your soul. That first earthly home will thrill through your everlasting career. The dewdrops that you have dashed from the chick-weed as you drove the cows afield thirty years ago; the fire-flies that flashed In your father's home on summer nights when the evenings were too short for a candle; the tinged pebbles tkat y®u 412 HEART ECHOES. gathered in your apron on the margin of the brook; the berries that you strung int^ a necklace, and the daisies that you plucked for your hair — all have gone into your sentiments and tastes, and you will never get over them. The trundle-bed where you slept, the chair where you sat, the blue-edged dish out of which you ate, your sister's jumping rope, your brother's ball, your kite, your hoop, your mother's smile, your father's frown — they are all part of the fiber of your immortal nature. The mother of Mis- • sionary Schwartz threw light on the dusky brow of the savages to whom he preached long after she was dead. The mother of Lord Byron pursued him, as with a fiend's fury, into all lands, stretching gloom and death into Childe Harold and Don Juan, and hovering in darkness over the lonely grave of Missol- onghi. Rascally and vagabond people for the most part come forth from unhappy homes. Parents harsh and cruel on the one hand, or on the other lenient to perfect looseness, are raising up a generation of vipers. A home in which scolding and fault-finding predominate is blood relation to the gallows and penitentiary. Petulance is a reptile that may crawl up into the fam- HEAR T E CHOES. 4 1 3 ily nest and crush it. There are parents who disgust their children even with religion. They scold their little ones for not 1 n'ing God. They have an infernal manner of hearing the catechism. They go about even their religious duties in an exasperating way, as though they were possessed of the r'.evil. Their house is full of the war hoop of contention, and from such scenes husbands and children dash out into places of dissipation to find their lost peace, or the peace they never had. Oh, is there some mother like Hagar leading her Ishmael into the desert to be sm.itten of the thirst and parched in the sand } In the solemn birth-hour a voice fell straight from the skies into that dwelling, saying, *' Take this child and nurse it for Me, and .. will give thee thy wages." When angels of God at nightfall hover over that dwelling, do they hear the little ones lisp the name of Jesus ? Oh, traveler for eternity, with your little ones gath- ered up under your robes, are you sure you are on the right road, or are you leading them on a dangerous and winding bridle-path, off which their inexperienced feet may slip, and up which comes the howling of the wolf and the sound of loosening ledge and tumbling avalanche .'' Blessed the family altar where the chil- 4 1 4 HEAR T E CIIOES. dren kneel. Blessed the cradle where the Christian mother rocks the Christian child. Blessed the song the little one sings at nightfall when sleep is closing the eyes and loosening the hand from the toy on the pillow. Blessed the mothers heart, whose every throb is a prayer to God for the salvation of her chil- dren. The world grows old, and soon the stars will cease to illuminate it, and the herbage to clothe it, and the mountains to guard it, and the waters to re- fresh it, and the heavens to overspan it, and the long story of its sin and shame and glory and triumph will turn to ashes; but parental influence, starting in the early home, will roll on and up into the great eter- nity, blooming in all the joy, waving in all the tri- umph, exulting in all the song of heaven, or groaning in all the pains and shrinking back into all the shame, and frowning in all the darkness of the great prison- house. O, father! O, mother! In which direction is your influence tending? I verily believe that three-fourths of the wicked- ness of the great city rune out rank and putrid from undisciplined homes. Sometimes, I know, there is an exception. From a bright, beautiful, cheerful Christian home a husband or a son will go off to die. =^ "^ HEART ECHOES. 41$ How long you have had that boy in your prayer! He does not know the tears you have shed. He knows nothing" about the sleepless nights you have passed about him. He .started on the downward road and will not stop, call you never so tenderly. Oh, it is tough, it is very tough, after having ex- pended so much kindness and care to get such pay of ingratitude! There is many a young man proud of his mother who would strike into the dust the dastard who would dare to do her wrong, whose hand by his first step in sin is sharpening a dagger to plunge through that mother's heart! I saw it. The telegram summoned him. I saw him come in, scarred and bloated, to look upon the lifeless form of his mother — those gray locks pushed back over the wrinkled brow he had whitened by his waywardness. Those eyes had rained floods of tears over his in- iquity. That still white hand had written many a loving letter of counsel and invitation. He had broken that old heart. When he came in, he threw himself on the coffin and sobbed outright and cried, ** Mother! mother!" But the lips that kissed him in infancy, and that had spoken so kindly on other days when he came home, spake not, They were sealed 41 6 HEART ECHOES. forever; Rather than such a memory on my soul, I would have rolled on me the Alps and the Himalayas. **The eye that mocketh Its father and refuseth to obey Its mother, the ravens of the valley shall pick it out, and the young eagles shall eat It.'* TO MY MOTHER. — Translated from /Teine, T LEFT thee once in mad desire to find ^ The love for which my spirit yearned with pain, At many a door I knocked and knocked in vain. Craving love's alms which none to grant inclined, But laughing, treated me with cold disdain^ Yet still I wandered, eager in the quest. Forever seeking, and for aye unblest, Since no one gave the boon for which I pined. Then, mother! turning to my home I went With weary steps and sorrow-numbing care, And lo! my pain was lost in sweet content. For what I sought came to me unaware; In the dear eyes that on thy son were bent All I had asked I found, for love was there. HEART ECHOES, 417 SILENT SOUNDS. — Nellie Watts McVey. ATOU do not hear it ? Unto me -*- The sweet low sound comes carelessly; And, floating, floods the earth and sky With tender tone. You do not hear the restless beat Upon the floor of childish feet — Of feet that tread the flowery street Of heaven alone. At morn, at noon, at eve, at night, I hear the patter, soft and light. And catch the gust of wings, snow-white, About my door. And on the silent air is borne The voice that from my world was torn- That left me, comfortless, to mourn For evermore. Sometimes floats up from out the street The boyish laughter, bird-like, sweet — 4 1 8 HEAR T ECHOES. I turn, forgetfully, to greet My darling fair: Soft as the ripple of the stream, Breeze kissed beneath the moon's pale beam. How strangely real doth it seem ! And he not there. Ah, no; you cannot hear his call; You catch no laugh, nor light footfall; I am his mother — that is all; And he who said, *'I will not leave thee desolate," Has, somehow, loosed the bonds of fate And left ajar the golden gate Which hides my dead. T TOME'S not merely roof and room; — ^^ It needs something to endear it. Home is where the heart can bloom; Where there's some kind lip to cheer it. What is home with none to meet. None to welcome, none to greet us ? Home is sweet — and only sweet — When there's one we love to meet us, fTEART ECHOES. 410 BOY LOST! TTE had black eyes, with long lashes, red cheeks, and hair almosi: black and almost curly. He wore a crimson plaid jacket, with full trowsers but- toned on. Had a habit of whistling" and liked to ask questions. Was accompanied v/ a small dog. It is a long while now since he appeared. I have a very pleasant house and much company. My guests say, "Ah! it is pleasant here. Everything has an orderly put-away look — nothing about under feet, no dirt!" But my eyes were aching for the sight of whist- ling and cut paper on the floor; of tumble-down card houses; of wooden sheep and cattle; of pop- guns, bows and arrows, whips, tops, go-carts, blocks and trumpery. I want to see boats a-rigging and carts a-making, crumbles on the carpet, and paste spilled upon the kitchen table. I want to see the chairs and tables turned wrong way about. I want to see the candy-making and corn-popping, and to find jack-knives and fish-hooks among my muslins; yet those things used to fret me once. 4^6 tiEAkT ECHOES. They say: *'How quiet you are here. Ah! one here may settle his brains and be at peace." But my ears are aching for the pattering of little feet; for a hearty shout, a shrill whistle, a f^ay tra, la, la; fv^r the crack of little whips, for the noise of drums and fifes and tin trumpets; yet those things made me nervous once. They say: *'Ah! you have leisure — nothing to disturb you; what heaps of sewing you must have time for." But I long to be asked for a bit of string or an old newspaper, for a cent to buy a slate pencil or peanuts. I want to ' . coaxed for a strip of cloth for gibs of mainsails, then to hem the same. I want to be followed by little feet all over the house; teased for a bit of dough for a little cake or to bake a pie in a saucer; yet those things used to fidget me once. They say: ''Ah! you are not tied at home. How delightful to be always at liberty, to go to con- certs, lectures and parties; no confinement for you." But I want confinement. I want to listen for the school bell mornings, to give the last hasty wash and brush, and then to watch, from the window, nimble feet bounding to school. I want frequent rents to mend, and to replace lost buttons; I want to obliter- HEAR T E CIIOES. 42 1 ate mud stains, and paints of all colors. I want to be sitting" by a little crib of evenings, when weary feet are at rest, and prattling voices are hushed, the mothers may sing their lullabies, and tell over the oft-repeated stories. They don't know their happi- ness then — those mothers. I didn't. All these things I called confinement once. A manly figure stands before me now. He is taller than I, has thick black whiskers, and wears a frock coat, bosomed shirt, and cravat. He has just come from college. He brings Latin and Greek in his countenance and busts of the old philosophers for the sitting room. He calls me mother, but I am rather unwilling to own him. He stoutly declares that he is my boy, and says that he will prove it. He brings me a small pair of trousers with gay stripes at the sides, and asks me if I didn't make them for him when he joined the boy's militia.^ He says he Is the very boy, too, that made the bon fire near the barn so that we came very near having a fire in earnest. He brings his little boat to show the red stripes on the sail (it was the end of the piece), and the name on the stern — ^*Lucy 423 HEART ECMOBS. Low"— a little girl of our neighborhood, who, be- cause of her long curls and pretty round face, was the chosen favorite of my little boy. Her curls were long since cut off, and she has grown to be a tall, handsome girl. How the red comes to his face when he shows me the name on the boat. Oh! I see it all as plain as if it were written in a book. My little boy is lost, and my big boy will be. Oh! I wish he were a little tired boy. In a long white night-gown, lying in his crib, with me sitting by, holding his hand in mine, pushing the curls back from his forehead, watching his eyelids droop, and listening to his deep breathing. If I only had my little boy again, how happy I would be! How much I would bear, and how little I would fret and scold! I can never have him back again, but still there are many mothers who haven't yet lost their little boys. I wonder if they know they are living their very best days; that now is the time really to enjoy their children? I think if I had been more to my little boy, I might now be more to my grown-up boy. HEART ECHOES. 4^^ WAIT FOR ME. —E. M. QE AWARD runs the little stream Where the wagoner cools his team; Where between the banks of moss, Stand the stepping stones to cross, O'er them comes a little maid. Laughing, not a bit afraid; Mother, there upon the shore, Crossed them safely just before. This the little lassie's plea — ** Wait for me, wait for me! '* Ah, so swift the waters run — One step, all might be undone; Little heart begins to beat. Fearing for the little feet. Soon her fear will all be lost, When the stepping-stones are crossed; Three more yet on which to stand — Two more, one more — then on land! 'Tis the little lassie's plea — ''Wait for me, wait for me!" 424 HEART ECHOES. Ah, for you, my laughing lass, When the years have come to pass, May one still be near to guide While you cross life's river wide. And when no helping hand is near- None, if you should call, to hear — Think however far away. Mother still knows all you say; E'en in heav'n she heeds your plea — "Wait for me, wait for me !" EARTH'S PUREST MEMORIES. T T may be only a Barlow knife with a rusty blade and "■• a broken point, or it may be a peg top half split down the middle, or only half a dozen battered spools on knot- ted string. But there it lies, whatever it is, stowed care- fully away in the far off corner of the bureau drawer, un- der a yellow pile of little linen and stockings, patched and darned at heel and at knee. But aJl the gems in Gol- conda cannot buy them; no, nor the gold of the wide world size their preciousness. For they are the holy of the holies. It is not often that she goes to that drawer, HEART ECHOED. 425 not often she looks upon the treasures there. But once in a while, sometimes, when a knock comes to the heart, that comes Jto mother's hearts alone, like the fam- ished and thirsty, she goes to the nest of her jewels. Slowly with soft hands, the little linens are laid aside, and slowly, with trembling hands, the knife, the top, or the dingy string of spools are drawn forth. Ah, how gently they are pressed to the hearts and lips ! What words are they saying, what sad, sweet songs are they singing? Kissed and cried on, and cried on and kissed. Then yearningly, reluctantly, clingingly back they go to their nest in the far-of¥ corner, and the yellowing little linens are put back one by one. All alone, jealous that mortal eyes should see her worship at the shrine, the drawer is closed, and she who knelt before it turns her mind back to things of earth once more. On the other hand, it is with equal tenderness that the living children recall her who once cherished them, but has now passed on. Mother! What hallowed mem- ories, what holy influences, what infinite tenderness and resistless love, encircle with gilded glory this divinely in- spired and God given name. Unwavering in her devo- tion, inimitable in the sweet melodies of her loving voice, and matchless in her never failing fidelity to her offspring. 426 HEART ECHOES. she has ever been the mightiest power on earth. The weeping infant pressed to her bosom falls asleep at the sound of her gentle voice and smiles as it dreams of an- gels regaling it with heavenly toys. Childhood distressed leaps for joy at her approach and flies to her bosom for refuge. The young man, trembling on the brink of ruin, pauses a moment, and the soft whispers of a mother's prayer leads him back to reformation. All ages, in every condition of life, from the pauper to the king, yield their willing homage to her resistless influence. She has mold- ed kingdoms, revolutionized empires, civilized and Chris- tianized heathen nations, and peopled earth and heaven. She is first in every noble work, first in every Christian reformation, and first in the kingdom of heaven. She was last at the cross, first at the sepulchre, and the only one to bathe the Master's feet in tears. THE HOME-COMING. T WANDER through the vacant room, ^ And pace the empty hall to-day. And catch afar the faint perfume Of new-mown hay. HEART ECHOES. 427 The past comes back with every breath That stirs among the garden flowers, And fills with sad, still shapes of death The noiseless hours. I leave the parlor and the hall, Filled with the ghosts of days gone by, Where not a picture on the wall But makes me cry. Can this be home? O empty name! How couldst thou dream, unknowing one, That home could ever be the same With mother gone ! How couldst thou dream that boyhood's bliss Should ever be revived again Without the mother-lips to kiss Away thy pain ! O holy mother-love, not lost, But garnered in the home on high, The summer's blight, the winter's frost, Shall pass thee by. And in the glad home-coming, when The mother greets her wandering boys. Our hungry souls shall taste again Thy richer joys, 428 HEART ECHOES. TRUST. — John G. Whittier, A PICTURE memory brings to me: ^ ^ I look across the years and see Myself beside my mother's knee. I feel her gentle hand restrain My selfish moods, and know again A child's blind sense of wrong and pain. But wiser now, a man gray grown, My childhood's needs are better known, My mother's chastening love I own. Gray grown, but in our Father's sight A child still groping for the light To read His works and ways aright. I bow myself beneath His hand; That pain itself for good was planned, I trust, but cannot understand. I fondly dream it needs must be, That as my mother dealt with me. So with His children dealeth He. -Page 428. I look across the years and see Myself beside my mother's knee. HEART ECHOES. 429 I wait and trust the end will prove That here and there, below, above, The chastening heals, the pain is love! THE INVISIBLE CHILDREN. /^H, it is not when your children are with you; it is not when you see and hear them, that they are most to you; it is when the sad assemblage is gone; it is when the daisies have resumed their growth in the place where the little form was laid; it is when you have carried your children out, and said farewell, and come home again, and day and night are full of sweet memories; it is when summer and winter are full of touches and suggestions of them; it is when you cannot look up toward God without thinking of them; nor look down toward yourself and not think of them; it is when they have gone out of your arms, and are living to you only by the power of the imagination, that they are the most to you. The invisible children are the realest chil- dren, the sweetest children, the truest children, the children that touch our hearts as no hands of flesh ever could touch them. 430 HEART ECHOES. A LETTER TO MOTHER. T AM cutting papers to-day, mother, (Papers to cover a shelf,) And saving out bits for my scrap-book; But unlike my former self, With the thoughts that are grand and noble, And the lines the poet sings, I am saving some very simple And decidedly childish things. For throned in her chair beside me, Sits a wee one, dainty and sweet. And I trust in the days that are coming She will care these lines to repeat. I think that in planning her life-work, The same fair future I see Which you saw in the long ago, mother. When you planned and prayed about me. I long to come home in the twilight, And, sitting down by your feet, HEART ECHOES, 431 Listen again to the Bible tales You used long ago to repeat — Of Adam, and Eve, and Abel; Of Noah, who heard and obeyed; Of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, With the faith and love they displayed. There was Joseph, sold into Egypt, And Moses before the king. And David, who slew Goliath With a little stone ii his slmg; There was Samuel, called at night-time, And Jonah cast into the deep. And many a dream and vision Of prophets and kings asleep. Then there was the wonderful story Of the child in a manger-bed. Who marked the pathway to glory With tears and blood that He shed. Dear mother, that "old, old story" Is the life of my life to me. 432 HEART ECHOES, And I want to train my children To be all He would have them be. Oh, a mother's mission is holy, And she must be holy, too. Or sadly fail in performing The work God gives her to do. So while I am sweeping and scrubbing, And cleaning dust from the paint. In my heart I am earnestly praying To be clean of sin and its taint. While the farmer goes to his planting, The mother by look and tone Is sowing in soil just as certain To yield of the seed she has sown. The work that she does may be lowly. But angels are watching her life; • The love of the Savior sustaineth Each faithful mother and wife. HEAR T E CHOES, 433 A MOTHER'S ADVICE. A LITTLE bird with feathers brown Sat singing on a tree; The song was very soft and low, But sweet as it could be. And all the people passing by- Looked up to see the bird That made the sweetest melody That ever they had heard. But all the bright eyes looked in vain, For birdie was so small. And with a modest, dark-brown coat. He made no show at all. » **Why, mammr!" little Gracie said, *• Where can the birdie be? If /could sing a song like that, /Vsit where folks could see." 434 HEART ECHOES, **I hope my little girl will learn A lesson from the bird, And try to do what good she can, Not to be seen or heard. **This birdie is content to sit Unnoticed by the way, And sweetly sing his Maker's praise From dawn till close of day. •< **So live, my child, all through your life, That, be it short or long, Though others may forget your looks^ They'll not forget your song.''' HEART ECHOES, 435 UNFINISHED STILL. A BABY'S boot, and a skein of wool, Faded and soiled, and soft; Odd things, you say, and no doubt youVe right. Round a seaman's neck this stormy night, Up in the yards aloft. Most like it's folly; but, mate, look here; When first I went to sea, A woman stood on a far-off strand. With a wedding ring on the small soft hand Which clung so close to me. My wife, God bless her ! The day before She sat beside my foot; And the sunlight kissed her yellow hair, And the dainty fingers, deft and fair. Were knitting a baby's boot. The voyage was over, I came ashore; What, think you, found I there .^ 436 HEART ECHOES. A grave the daisies had sprinkled white; A cottage empty, and dark as night, And this beside the chair. The little boot, 'twas unfinished still; The tangled skein lay near; But the knitter had gone away to rest. With the babe asleep on her quiet breast, Down in the churchyard drear. WANT TO SEE MOTHER. T") ECENTLY a young lady residing in Sacramento had been ill for some months. One day her mother, worn out by care and watching, had lain down upon the foot of the bed, leaving two women to watch over the sufferer, who appeared to be in a stupor. She had be n asleep but a few minutes when her daughter awoke and inquired of the nurse: ** Where is mother.? I want to sec her this minute." The ladies explained the circumstances, to which the girl replied: **Yes, I know mother is tired out; but I must see her right now." Expostulations were HEART ECHOES. 437 useless; she became excited and reaching over to her mother, endeavored to arouse her, but was '.00 weak. The ladies finally concluded to wake the parent, who immediately sat up in bed and looked at her daughter. The latter glanced full in her face for a second, and fell back dead. Her last look was in her mother's face — the first face she ever recognized, the last she ever saw. May we not hope that she bhall recognize that face again, in the first dawning glories of the eternal day.? An old gray-headed Scotch woman lay on her dying bed, and called again and again for her mother. Friends, kindred, family and associates were forgot- ten, the only word upon her lips, the only memory lingering in her heart, was ''Mither." That mother had been sleeping in her grave for more than fifty years ! and yet, like a weary child, the gray-haired woman, with her drawn countenance and withered heart, loved like an infant to nestle in her mother's arms. Mother, do you know the power that God has given you } You touch springs that may vibrate in the great beyond — keys that may awake eternal 43^ HEART ECHOES. melody. You stamp your iiYJaefe first and deepest on the human soul. A surgeon, in seeking for a stray bullet that had wounded one of Napoleon'o soldiers, pushed his probe near the region oi the heart. *'Go a little deeper," said the old veteran, *'and you will find the Emperor." So when all other thoughts and mem- ories and impressions are effaced, go a little deeper; at the bottom of all is found mother, and the only deeper thought is that of God ! Mother, do your work well. Let prayers and smiles, and tears and kisses, and counsels and en- couragements come from a mother as they can come from no one else, that at last you may lead your little flock to the heavenly fold, saying, ''Behold I, and the children whom Thou hast given mo." TTE who passes a day of his manhood without re- membering his mother's eyes, as they looked to him in childhood, is losing the best part of remem- brance. HEART ECHOES, 439 BEYOND. T)EYOND life's toils and cares, Its hopes and joys, its weariness and sorrow, Its sleepless nights, its days of smiles and tears, Will be a long sweet life, unmarked by years, One bright, unending morrow. * Beyona time's troubled stream, Beyond the chilling waves of death's dark river, Beyond life's lowering clouds and fitful gleams, Its dark realities and brighter dreams, A beautiful forever. No aching hearts are there, No tear-dimmed eye, no form by sickness wasted, No cheek grown pale through penury or care, No spirits crushed beneath the woes they bear, No sighs for bliss untasted. No sad farewell is heard. No lonely wail for loving ones departed, 440 HEART ECHOES. No dark remorse is there o'er memories stirred, No smile of scorn, no harsh or cruel word To grieve the broken heart. No mortal eye hatn seen The glories of that land beyond that river, Its crystal lakes, its fields of living green, Its fadeless flowers, and the unchanging sheen Around the throne forever. Eaf hath not heard the song Of rapturous praise within that shining portal ; No heart of man hath dreamed what joys belong To that redeemed and happy blood-washed throng, All glorious and immortal. HEART ECHOES. 441 ROCK OF AGES. i^pOCK of Ages, cleft for me"— Thoughtlessly the maiden sung, Fell the words unconsciously From her girlish, gleeful tongue ; Sang as little children sing; Sang as sing the birds in June ; Fell the words like light leaves down On the current of the tune — **Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee." **Let me hide myself in Thee'* — Felt her soul no need to hide : Sweet the song as song could be — And she had no thought beside; All the words unheedingly Fell from lips untouched by care, Dreaming not they each might be On some other lips a prayer — **Rock of Ages, cleft for me. Let me hide myself in Thee." 442 ' HEART ECHOES. **Rock of Ages, cleft for me" — 'Twas a woman sung them now; Pleadingly and prayerfully, Every word her heart did know. Rose the song as storm-tossed bird Beats with weary wing the air, Every note with sorrow stirred — Every syllable a prayer — ''Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee." **Rock of Ages, cleft for me" — Lips grown aged sung the hymn. Trustingly and tenderly — Voice grown weak and eyes grown dim, **Let me hide myself in Thee" — Trembling though the voice and low, Ran the sweet strain peacefully, ^ Like a river in its flow, Sung as only they can sing. Who behold the promised rest — **Rock of Ages, cleft for me. Let me hide myself in Thee." HEART ECHOES. 443 *^Rock of Ages, cleft for me" — Sung above a coffin lid, Underneath, all restfully. All life's joys and sorrows hid. Never more, O storm-tossed soul, Never more from wind or tide, Never more from billow's roll, Wilt thou need thyself to hide. Could the sightless, sunken eyes, Closed beneath the soft gray hair, Could the mute and stiffened lips Move again in pleading prayer. Still, aye, still, the words will be, **Let me hide myself in Thee." HTHE every-day cares and duties, which men call drudgery, are the weights and counterpoises of the clock of time, giving its pendulum a true vibration and its hands a regular motion; and when they cease to hang upon its wheels, the pendulum no longer swings, the hands no longer move, the clock §tands stilj, •'—Longfellow, 444 HEART ECHOES. THE ALABASTER BOX. — Talmage, "PvO not keep the alabaster boxes of your love and tenderness sealed up until your friends are dead. Fill their lives with sweetness. Speak approving, cheering words while their ears can hear them, and while their hearts can be thrilled by them. The things you mean to say when they are gone, say before they go. The flowers you mean to send for their coffins, send to brighten and sweeten their homes before they leave them. If my friends have alabaster boxes laid away, full of perfumes of sympathy and affection, which they in- tend to break over my dead body, I would rather they would bring them out in my weary hours and open them, that I may be refreshed and cheered by them when I need them. I would rather have a funeral without an eulogy than a life without the sweetness of love and sympathy. Let us learn to anoint our friends beforehand for their burial. Post mortem kindnesses do not cheer the burdened spirit. Flowers on the coffin cast no fragrance backward over the weary days. HEART ECHOES, 445 THE TWO BELLS. — Bessie Chandler. T ONG years ago, so runs an ancient story, Two bells were sent from Spain to that fair clime New-found, beyond the sea, that to God's glory And in His house together they might chime. And to this day one bell is safely swinging Within its sheltering tower, where, clear and free, It hallows each day with its mellow ringing; The other bell, the mate, was lost at sea. And when in gentle chime the bell is pealing, The people listen; for they say they hear An echo from the distant ocean stealing — It is the lost one's answer, faint, yet clear. Ah, love, like those two bells we sailed together, And you have reached your holy work and rest; But stormy was the -way and rude the weather. And I was lost beneath the wave's white crest. 446 HEART ECHOES. Over my buried heart the waters glisten; Across my breast the seaweeds wave and twine; Dead is my soul's best life, save when I listen, And hear your spirit calling unto mine. Then the old longing wakes — I start, I shiver, I try to break the bonds which hold me dumb, I turn, I strive with many a throe and quiver; I feebly answer, but I cannot come. LUDWIG'S LOVE. — Field, /^NCE upon a time there were two youths named Herman and Ludwig, and they both loved Eloise, the daughter of the old burgomaster. Now, the old burgomaster was very rich, and, having no child but Eloise, he was anxious that she should be well married and settled in life.' **For," said he, * death is likely to come to me at any time; I am old and feeble, and I want to see my child sheltered by another's love before I am done with earth forever." Eloise was much beloved by all the youth in the village, and there was not one whp WQuld not gladly HEART ECHOES, 447 have taken her to wife; but none loved her so much as did Herman and Ludwig. Nor did Eloise care for any but Herman and Ludwig; and she loved Her- man. The burgomaster said: ''Choose whom you will — I care not! So long as he be honest I will have him for a son and thank heaven for him." So Eloise chose Herman and all said she chose wisely, for Herman was young and handsome and by his valor had won distinction in the army and had thrice been complimented by the general. So when the brave young captain led Eloise to the altar there was great rejoicing in the village; the beaux, forget- ting their disappointment, and the maidens, seeing the cause of all their jealousy removed, made merry together, and it was said that never had there been in the history of the province an event so joyous as was the wedding of Herman and Eloise. But in all the village there was one aching heart. Ludwig, the young musician, saw with quiet despair the maiden he loved go to the altar with another. He had known Eloise from childhood and he could not say when his love for her began — it was so very long ago — but now he knew his heart was consumed by a hopeless passion. Once, at a village festival, he 448 HEART ECHOES^ had begun to speak to her of his love, but Eloise had placed her hand kindly upon his lips and told him to say no further, for they had always been and always would be brother and sister. So Ludwig never spoke his love after that, and Eloise and he were as brother and sister, but the love of her grew always within him, and he had thought but of her. And now, when Eloise and Herman were wed, Ludwig feigned that he had received a message from a rich relative in a distant part of the kingdom, bid- ding him come thither, and Ludwig went from the village and was seen no more. When the burgomaster died all his possessions went to Herman and Eloise, and they were accounted the richest folk in the province, and so good and charitable were they that they were beloved by all. Meanwhile Herman had risen to greatness in the army, for by his valorous exploits he had become a general and he was much endeared to the king. And Eloise and Herman lived in a great castle in the midst of a beautiful park, and the people came and paid them reverence there. And no one in all these years spoke of Ludwig. No one thought of him. And so the years went by. HEART ECHOES. 449 It came to pass, however, that from a far distant province there spread the fame of a musician so great that the king sent for him to visit the court. No one knew the musician's name or whence he came, for he lived alone and would never speak of himself; but his music was so tender and beautiful that it was called heart-music, and he himself was called the Master. He was old and bowed with infirmities, but his music was always of youth and love; it touched every heart with its simplicity and pathos, and all wondered how this old and broken man could create so much of tenderness and sweet- ness on these themes. But when the king sent for the Master to come to court, the Master returned him answer: '*No, I am old and feeble. To leave my home would weary me unto death. Let me die here as I have lived these long years, weaving my music for hearts that need my solace." Then the people wondered. But the king was not angry; in pity he sent the Master a purse of gold, and bade him come or not come, as he willed. Such honor had never before been shown any subject in the kingdom, and all the people were dumb with 450 HEART ECHOES. amazement. But the Master gave the purse of gold to the poor of the village wherein he lived. In those days Herman died, full of honors and years, and there was a great lamentation in the land, for Herman was beloved by all. And Eloise wept unceasingly and would not be comforted. On the seventh day after Herman had been buried, there came to the castle in the park an aged and bowed man, who carried in his white and trem- bling hands a violin. His kindly face was deeply wrinkled, and a venerable beard swept down upon his breast. He was weary and footsore, but he heeded not the words of pity bestowed on him by all who beheld him tottering on his way. He knocked boldly at the castle gate and demanded to be brought into the presence of Eloise. And Eloise said: ''Bid him enter; perchance his music will comfort my breaking heart." Then, when the old man had come into her presence, behold! he was the Master — ay, the Mas- ter whose fame was in every land, whose heart-music was on every tongue. *'If thou art indeed the Master," said Eloise, *'let thy music be balm to my chastened spirit." The Master said: *' Ay, lady, I will comfort thee HEART ECHOES. 4^1 in thy sorrow, and thy heart shall be stayed, and a great joy will come to thee." Then the Master drew his bow across the strings, and lo ! forthwith there arose such harmonies as El- oise had never heard before. Gently, persuasively, they stole upon her senses and filled her soul with an ecstasy of peace. '*Is it Herman that speaks to me.''" cried Eloise. **It is his voice I hear, and it speaks to me of love. With thy heart-music, O Master, all the sweetness of his life comes back to comfort me." The Master did not pause as he played; it seemed as if each tender word and caress of Herman's life were stealing back on music's pinions to soothe the wounds that death had made. *'It is the song of our love life," murmured El- oise. *' How full of memories it is — what tenderness and harmony — and oh, what peace it brings! But tell me, Master, what means this minor chord ^- this undertone of sadness and of pathos that flows like a deep, unfathomable current throughout it all, and wailing weaves itself about thy theme of love and happiness with its weird and subtile influences.?" Then the Master said: *'It is that shade of sor- row and sacrifice, O lady, that ever makes the picture 452 HEART ECHOES. of love more glorious. An undertone of pathos has been my part in all these years to symmetrize the love of Herman and Eloise. The song of thy love is beautiful, and who shall say it is not beautified by the sad undertone of Ludwig's broken heart ?" ''Thou art Ludwig ? " cried Eloise. **Thou art Ludwig who didst love me, and hast come to comfort me, who loved you not ? " The Master indeed was Ludwig, but when they hastened to do him homage he heard them not, for with that last and sweetest heart-song, his head sank upon his breast, and he was dead. T LIVE for those who love me. Whose hearts are kind and true; For the heaven that smiles above me And waits my spirit too; For all human ties that bind me, For the task my God assigned me, For the bright hopes left behind me. And the good that I can do. — Byron. HEART ECHOES 453 '^N. FOR NANNIE AND B. FOR BEN. — J, Gaut^ \T FOR Nannie and B. for Ben; I see them now as I saw them then, On the bark of the oak tree wed. She stood by my side in the clover white, While the liquid gold of the June sunlight ^J Swept over her sweet ^^E young head; And I had just carved J those letters twain, Which time and the tem- pests all in vain Have striven to blur and blot; They live in the oak tree's dusky grain, Stamped is their memory on my brain; Changing, changing, and fading not. Davis, 454 HEART ECHOES. Oh! the vows that I vowed that day! Their broken shards in my bosom stay, Wounding it hour by hour. Could I prove false to one so true? Dared I prove cruel, my love, to you? Oh, Nannie, my lily flower! Ere the snow had whitened those letters twain In the old church porch you hid your pain As I and my bride passed by. Your eyes were brave, but your cheek grew white The cheek that I should have pillowed that night, Where now it shall never lie. Little Nannie, you are at rest. Buttercups growing over your breast. Close by the churchyard gate; And I have lived to rue the day. Gold tempted my steps from love away, And mine is the saddest fate. I'd give the rest of my life to-night To see you stand in the clover white, The sun on your locks of gold, And carve once more as I carved them then, N. for Nannie and B. for Ben On the bark of the oak tree old. HEART ECHOES. 455 SEASONS OF LIFE. — Dr. Adams. A T a festival party of old and young, the ques- tion was asked : What season of life was the most happy? After being freely discussed by the guests, it was referred for answer to the host, upon whom was the burden of four-score years. He asked if they had noticed a grove of trees before the dwelling, and said: ''When the spring comes, and in the soft air the buds are breaking on the trees, and they are covered with blossoms, I think ' how beautiful is spring;' and when summer comes and covers the trees with its heavy foliage, and singing birds arc among the branches, I think ' how beauti- ful is summer.' When autumn loads them with golden fruit, and their leaves bear the gorgeous tint of frost, I think 'how beautiful is autumn.' And when it is sear winter, and there is neither foliage nor fruit, then I look up, and through the leafless branches see as I never could see before, the stars shining through." 456 HEART ECHOES. HEAVEN AT LAST. — Horatius Bonar. A NGEL voices sweetly singing, Echo through the blue dome ringing, News of wondrous gladness bringing; Ah, 'tis heaven at last. Now, beneath us all the grieving, All the wounded spirit's heaving, All the woe of hopes deceiving; Ah, 'tis heaven at last. Sin forever left behind us, Earthly visions cease to blind, Fleshly fetters cease to bind us; Ah, 'tis heaven at last. On the jasper threshold standing, Like a pilgrim safely landing, See, the strange bright scene expanding ; Ah, 'tis heaven at last. HEART ECHOES, 457 What a city; what a glory; Far beyond the brightest story Of the ages old and hoary; Ah, 'tis heaven at last. Softest voices suver-pealing, Freshest fragrance, spirit-healing, Happy hymns around us stealing ; Ah, 'tis heaven at last. Gone the vanity and folly, Gone the dark and melancholy, Come the joyous and the holy; Ah, 'tis heaven at last. Not a broken blossom yonder, Not a link can snap asunder, Stay'd the tempest, sheathed the thunder; Ah, 'tis heaven at last. Not a tear-drop ever falleth. Not a pleasure ever palleth. Song to song forever calleth ; Ah, 'tis heaven at last. 45^ HEART ECHOES. SHALL WE MEET AGAIN? — George D. Prentiss, npHE fiat of death is inexorable. There is no ap- peal for relief from that great law which dooms us to dust. We flourish and fade as the leaves of the forest; and the flowers that bloom, and wither and fade in a day have no frailer hold upon life than the mightiest monarch that ever shook the earth with his footsteps. Generations of men will appear and dis- appear as the grass, and the multitude that throngs the world to-day will disappear as footsteps on the shore. Men seldom think of the great event of death, until the shadow falls across their own pathway, hid- ing from their eyes the faces of loved ones, whose living smile was the sunlight of their existence. Death is the antagonist of life, and the thought of the tomb is the skeleton of all feasts. We do not want to go through the dark valley, although the dark passage may lead to paradise; we do not want to go down into damp graves, even with princes for bedfellows. In the beautiful drama of Ion, the hope HEART ECHOES. 459 of immortality, so eloquently uttered by the death- devoted Greek, finds deep response in every thought- ful soul. When about to yield his life a sacrifice to fate, his Clemanthe asks, if they should meet again; to which he responds: "I have asked that dreadful question of the hills that look eternal, of the clear streams that flow forever, of stars among whose fields of azure my raised spirits walked in glory. All are dumb. But, as I gaze upon thy living face, I feel that there is something in love that mantles through its beauty, that cannot wholly perish. We shall meet again, Clemanthe." IF AND IF, — Mary Ainge De Vere. TF all the pity and love untold. Could scatter abroad in coins of gold. There would not be, on the whole round earth. One hungry heart, nor one wretched hearth. And oh, if the kind words never said, Could bloom into flowers, and spread and shed Their sweetness out on the common air. The breath of heaven would be everywhere. 46o HEART ECHOES, FINISHING LIFE. THE following thoughts on Old Age are selected from the writings of Cicero, one of the ablest and wisest citizens of the grand old Roman nation. He was born one hundred and six years before Christ, and filled a long career with honor and undying worth. His life is regarded as one among many pleasant proofs that God never leaves himself without a witness in the hearts of men, in any age or any country. Those who have no internal resources of hap- piness will find themselves uneasy in every stage of human life; but to him who is accustomed to derive happiness from within himself, no state will appear as a real evil into which he is conducted by the common and regular course of nature; and this is peculiarly the case with respect to old age. I follow nature, as the surest guide, and resign my- self with implicit obedience to her sacred ordinances. After having wisely distributed peculiar and proper enjoyments to all the preceding periods of life, it cannot be supposed that she would neglect the last, and leave it destitute of suitable enjoyments. After a certain point of maturity is attained, marks of decay must necessarily appear; but t© this un- HEART ECHOES, 461 avoidable condition of his present being, every wise and good man will submit with contented and cheer- ful acquiescence. Nothing can be more void of foundation than the assertion that old age necessarily disqualifies a man for taking part in the great affairs of the world. If an old man cannot perform in business a part which requires the bodily strength and energy of more vigorous years, he can act in a nobler and more important character. Momentous affairs of state are not conducted by corporeal strength and activity; they require cool deliberation, prudent coun- sel and authoritative influence: qualifications which are strengthened and improved by increase of years. Few among mankind arrive at old age; and this suggests a reason why the affairs of the world are not better conducted, for age brings experience, discretion and judgment, without which no well in- formed government could have been established or can be maintained. Appius Claudius was not only old but blind when he remonstrated in the senate with so much force and spirit against concluding a peace with Pyrrhus. The celebrated general Quln- tus Maximus led our troops to battle in his old age. 462 HEART ECHOES. with as much spirit as if he had been in the prime and vigor of life. It was by his advice and elo- quence, when he was extremely old, that the Cincian law concerning donatives was enacted. And it was not merely in the conspicuous paths of the world that this excellent man was truly great. He appeared still greater in the private and domestic scenes of life. There was a dignity in his deportment, tem- pered with singular politeness and affability; and time wrought no alteration in his amiable qualities. How pleasing and instructive was his conversation; how profound his knowledge of antiquity and the laws. His^ memory was so retentive that there was no event of any note connected with our public af- fairs with which he was not well acquainted. I eagerly embraced every opportunity to enjoy his so- ciety, feeling that after his death I should never again meet so wise and improving a companion. But it is not necessary to be a hero or a states- man in order to lead an easy and agreeable old age. That season of life may prove equally serene and pleasant to him who has passed his days in the retired paths of learning. It is urged that old age impairs the memory. It may have that effect on those in HEART ECHOES. 463 whom memory was originally infirm, or who have not preserved its vigor by exercising it properly. But the faculties of the mind will preserve their power in old age, unless they are suffered to become languid for want of due cultivation. Caius Callus employed himself to the very last moments of his long life in measuring the distances of the heavenly orbs and determining the dimension of this, our earth. How often has the sun risen in his astronomical calcula- tions; how frequently has night overtaken him in the same elevated studies; with what delight did he amuse himself in predicting to us, long before they happened, the several lunar and solar eclipses. Other ingenious applications of the mind there are, though of a lighter nature, which may greatly contribute to enliven and amuse the decline of life. Thus Naevius, in composing his poem on the Carthagenian war, and Plautus, in writing his last two comedies, filled up the leisure of their latter days with wonderful complacency and satisfaction. I can affirm the same of our dramatic poet Livius, whom I remember to have seen in his old age; and let me not forget Mar- cus Cethegus, justly styled the soul of eloquence, whom I likewise saw in his old age, exercising even 464 HEART ECHOES. his oratorical talents with uncommon force and vi- vacity. All these old men I saw pursuing their respective studies with the utmost order and alacrity. Solon, In one of his poems, glories that he learned something every day he lived. Plato occupied him- self with philosophical studies till they were inter- rupted by death, at eighty-one years of age. Isocrates composed his famous discourse when he was ninety- four years old, and he lived five years afterward. Sophocles continued to write tragedies when he was extremely old. Gray hair proved no obstacle to the philosophical pursuits of Pythagoras, Zeno, Cleanthes or the venerable Diogenes. These eminent persons persevered in their studies with undiminished earnest- ness to the last moment of their extended lives. Liontinus Gorgias, who lived to be one hundred and seven years old, pursued his studies with unremitting assiduity to the last. When asked if he did not wish to rid himself of the burden of such prolonged years, he replied, **I find no reason to complain of old age." The statement that age impairs our strength is not without foundation. But, after all, imbecility of body is more frequently caused by youthful irregular- HEART ECHOES. 465 ities than by the natural and unavoidable consequences of long life. By temperance and exercise, a man may secure to his old age no inconsiderable degree of his former spirit and activity. The venerable Lucius Metell'JS preserved such a florid old age to his last moments as to have no reason to lament the depreda- tions of time. If it must be acknowledged that time inevitably undermines physical strength, it is equally true that great bodily vigor Is not required In the de- cline of life. A moderate degree of force is sufficient for all rational purposes. I no more regret the ab- sence of youthful vigor. Old age has, at least, suffi- cient strength remaining to train the rising generation, and Instruct them In the duties to which they may hereafter be called; and certainly there cannot be a more Important or a more honorable occupation. There is satisfaction In communicating every kind of useful knowledge; and It must render a man happy to employ the faculties of his mind In so noble and ben- eficial a purpose, how much soever time may have im- paired his bodily powers. Men of good sense, in the evening of life, are generally fond of associating with the younger part of the world, and when they discover amiable qualities in them, they find it an alleviation 466 HEAR T E CHOES. of their infirmities to gain their affection and esteem, and well-inclined young men think themselves equally happy to be guided into the paths of knowledge and virtue by the instructions of experienced elders. 1 love to see the fire of youth somewhat tempered by the sobriety of age, and it is pleasant to see the grav- ity of age enlivened by the vivacity of youth. Who- ever combines these two qualities in his character will never exhibit traces of senility in his mind, though his body may bear the marks of years. As for the natural and necessary inconveniences attendant upon length of years, we ought to counter- act their progress by constant and resolute opposi- tion. The infirmities of age should be resisted like the approach of disease. To this end we should use regular and moderate exercisfe, and merely eat and drink as much as is necessary to repair our strength without oppressing the organs of digestion. And the intellectual faculties, as well as the physical, should be carefully assisted. Mind and body thrive equally by suitable exercise of their powers, with this differ- ence, however, that bodily exertion ends in fatigue, whereas the mind is never wearied by activity. Another charge against old age is, that it de- HEART ECHOES, 467 prives us of sensual gratifications. Happy effect, indeed, to be delivered from those snares which allure youth into some of the worst vices. ''Reason," said Archytas, ''is the noblest gift which God or nature has bestowed on men. Now, nothing is so great an enemy to that divine endowment as the pleasures of sense; for neither temperance, nor any of the more exalted virtues, can find a place in that breast which is under the dominion of voluptuous passions. Im- agine to yourself a man in the actual enjoyment of the highest gratifications mere animal nature is cap- able of receiving. There can be no doubt that during his continuance in that state it would be utterly im- possible for him to exert any one power of his rational faculties." The inference I draw from this is, that if the principles of reason and virtue have not proved sufficient to inspire us with proper contempt for mere sensual pleasures, we have cause to feel grateful to old age for at least weaning us from appetites it would ill become us to gratify; for voluptuous passions are bitter enemies to all the nobler faculties of the soul. They hold no communion with the manly virtues, and they cast a mist before the eye of reason. The little relish which old age leaves for enjoyments merely 468 HEART ECHOES. sensual, instead of being a disparagement to that period of life, considerably enhances its value. I derive much pleasure from hours devoted to cheerful discourse, that I love to prolong my meals, not only when the company is composed of men of my own years, few of whom indeed are now remain- ing, but also when it chiefly consists of young persons. And I acknowledge my obligations to old age for having increased my passion for the pleasures of con- versation, while it has abated it for those which de- pend solely on the palate. The advantages of age are inestimable, if we consider it as delivering us from the tyranny of lust and ambition, from angry and contentious passions, from inordinate and irrational desires; in a word, as teaching us to retire within ourselves, and look for happiness in our own souls. If to these moral bene- fits, which naturally result from length of days, be added the sweet food of the mind, gathered in the fields of science, I know of no season of life that is passed more agreeably than .the learned leisure of a virtuous old age. Can the luxuries of the table, or the amusements of the theater, supply their votaries with enjoyments worthy to be compared with the HEART ECHOES. 469 calm delights of intellectual enjoyments? And, in minds rightly formed and properly cultivated, these exalted delights never fail to improve and gather strength with years. From the pleasures which attend a studious old age, let us turn to those derived from rural occupa- tions, of which I am a warm admirer. Pleasures of this class are perfectly consistent with every degree of advanced years, as they approach more nearly than any others to those of a purely philosophical kind. They are derived from observing the nature and properties of our earth, which yields ready obedience to the cultivator's industry, and returns with interest whatever he places in her charge. But the profits arising from this fertility are by no means the most desirable circumstances of the farm- er's labors. I am principally delighted with observ- ing the powers of nature, and tracing her processes in vegetable productions. How wonderful it is that each species is endowed with power to continue itself, and that minute seeds should develop so amazingly into large trunks and branches. The or- chard, the vegetable garden and the parterre diversify the pleasures of farming, not to mention the feeding 470 " HEART ECHOES. of cattle and the rearing of bees. Among my friends and neighbors in the country are several men far advanced in life, who employ themselves with so much activity and industry in agricultural business that nothing important is carried on without their supervision. And these rural veterans do not con- fine their energies to those sorts of crops which are sown and reaped in one year. They occupy them- selves in branches of husbandry from which they know they cannot live to derive any advantage. If asked why they thus expend their labor, they might well reply: ''We do it in obedience to the immor- tal gods. By their bountiful providence we received these fields from our ancestors, and it is their will that we should transmit them to posterity with im- provements." In my opinion there is no happier occupation than agriculture, not only on account of its great utility to mankind, but also as the source of peculiar pleasures. I might expatiate on the beauties of verdant groves and meadows, on the charming landscape of olive trees and vineyards; but to say all in one word, there cannot be a more pleasing or a more profitable scene than that of a well cultivated farm. And where else can a man in the last stages HEART ECHOES. 471 of life more easily find warm sunshine, or a good fire in winter, or the pleasure of cooling shades and refreshing streams in summer ? It is often argued that old age must necessarily be a state of much anxiety and disquietude, on account of the near approach of death. That the hour of dissolution cannot be far distant from an aged man is undoubtedly true. But every event that is agreeable to the course of nature ought to be re- garded as a real good; and surely nothing can be more natural than for the old to die. It is true that youth also is exposed to dissolution; but it is a dissolution obviously contrary to nature's intentions, and in op- position to her strongest efforts. Fruit, before it is ripe, cannot be separated from the stalk without some degree of force; but when it is perfectly mature, it drops itself; so the disunion of the soul and body is effected in the young by violence; but in the old it takes place by mere fullness and completion of years. This ripeness for death I perceive in myself with much satisfaction; and I look forward to my dissolution as to a secure haven where I shall at length find a happy repose from the fatigues of a long voyage. With regard to the consequences of our dissolu- 472 HEART ECHOES. tion, I will venture to say that the nearer death ap- proaches the more clearly do I seem to discern Its real nature. When I consider the faculties with which the human mind is endowed, its amazing celerity, its wonderful power In recollecting past events, and Its sagacity in discerning the future, together with the numberless discoveries In arts and sciences, I feel a conscious conviction that this active, comprehensive principle cannot possibly be of a mortal nature. And as this unceasing activity of the soul derives its en- ergy from Its own intrinsic and essential powers, without receiving It from any foreign or external im- pulse, it necessarily follows that Its activity must con- tinue forever. I am induced to embrace this opinion, not only as agreeable to the best deductions of rea- son, but also In deference to the authority of the noblest and most distinguished philosophers. I am well convinced that my departed friends are so far from having ceased to live, that the state they now enjoy can alone with propriety be called life. I feel myself transported with Impatience to join those whose characters I have greatly respected and whose persons I have loved. Nor is this earnest desire confined alone to those excellent persons with HEAR T E CHOES. 473 whom I have been connected. I ardently wish also to visit those celebrated worthies of whom I have heard or read so much. To this glorious assembly I am speedily advancing; and I would not be turned back on my journey, even on the assured condition that my youth should be again restored. The sincere truth is, if some divinity would confer on me a new grant of life, I would reject the offer without the least hesitation. I have well nigh finished the race, and have no disposition to return to the starting point. I do not mean to imitate those philosophers who represent the condition of human nature as a subject of just lamentation. The satisfactions of this life are many; but there comes a time when we have had a sufficient measure of its enjoyments, and may well depart contented with our share of the feast. I am far from regretting that this life was bestowed on me; and I have the satisfaction of thinking that I have employed it in such a manner as not to have lived in vain. In short, I consider this world as a place which nature never intended for my permanent abode; and I look on my departure from It, not as being driven from my habitation, but simply as leaving an inn. i74 HEART ECHOES. THE BREAKING LIGHT. —J. G. Whittier. H, sometimes glimpses on my sight, Through present wrong, the eternal light; And step by step since time began, I see the steady gain of man. That all of good the past hath had Remains to make our own time glad, Our common daily life divine. And every land a Palestine. For still the new transcenas the old In signs and tokens manifold; Slaves rise up men, the olive waves With roots deep set in battle-graves. Through the harsh noises of our day, A low, sweet prelude finds its way; Through clouds of doubt and creeds of fear A light is breaking, calm and clear= HEART ECHOES, 475 THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 'T^HE day was gone, and the night was dark, As the howling winds went by. And the blinding sleet fell thick and fast From a stern and stormy sky. When a mournful wail, through the rushing gale, Was heard at the cottage door — **0h, carry me back, oh, carry me back, To my mother's home once more." 'Twas a youth who had left his mountain home. He had wander'd far and long; He had drain'd the goblet's fiery tide, At the festal midnight throng; He had left the hall of the tempter's power, And the revel wild and high — They cared not in their reckless mirth If he wandered alone to die. But a dream of home came o'er his heart, As he crept to the cottage door — **0h, carry me back, oh, carry me back, To my mother's home once more." 476 HEART ECHOES. I WANT MY MAMMA, TOO!" n^HE red December sun had disappeared behind the distant hills in the midst of glories in- describable, and deep- brooding night hung over the quiet valley. Towards the north the thick clustering lights of a city sent up a puny challenge to the radiant stars massed overhead. Towards the south, stretching down the val- ley like the tail of a little comet, the lights in hundreds of suburban villas peered like curious eyes into the outer darkness. The entire scene was one of peace and repose. In one of the villas an upturned curtain revealed a pretty sight. A beautiful lady sat in a chair in the center of a drawing room, and from opposite corners two manly little fellows were making repeated on- slaughts upon her, their apparent object being to HEART ECHOES. ^jj see who should gain the chair first and be rewarded for his prowess with a kiss from its fair, sweet oc- cupant. A gentleman seated at one end of the room glared up now and then, with a sort of frowning smile, as peal after peal of boyish laughter disturbed his calm communion with his favorite evening paper, but he had not the heart to put a stop to this im- provised game, as it went merrily on. Meanwhile, a wee figure was toiling up the road from an adjacent house. She was evidently a fugi- tive, for she was hatless, and her stockings had fallen down from her knees and were rolled about her diminutive shoes, leaving the little white legs exposed to the chill wintry air. A mass of tangled golden hair floated back in the breeze, and the sweet violet eyes were welling over in great tears, which rolled down the ruddy cheeks and splashed upon the little hands holding tight to her breast a ragged doll. Great sobs convulsed the tiny creature as she half ran along the frosty road. **0h, Dod, tell me where my mamma is," the baby implored. And ever and again that plaintive little 478 HEART ECHOES. cry broke forth: ''Oh, Dod, tell me where my mam- ma is." No one had yet missed her from home, so there was no pursuit. Presently she arrived at the house with the up- drawn curtains. It was only a few rods from her own home, but to the weary little feet the distance had been tremendous. She paused at the gateway, and hearing the sound of laughter within, and attracted by the brightly lighted windows, she toiled up the steps to the piazza, and approaching the nearest window, sat down and looked in. Something in the merry scene within seemed to bring a fresh sense of desolation to the little heart without. The golden head leaned heavily against the bright pane, and a wail — ''Oh, Dod, I want my mamma, too," — burst from the quivering, rosebud mouth. "Oh, Dod, I want my mamma, too! " The game ceased suddenly, for the words seemed to cut through the clear glass to the ears within. One of the boys ran to the window, and drew HEART ECHOES, 479 back quickly, and with amazement and pity in his voice, cried out: ''Oh, mamma, come quick. There's a poor lit- tle girl outside." The beautiful lady came swiftiy to the window. For one moment she gazed, motionless with pity, on the tiny creature lying huddled up against the pane; then quickly raising the broad sash, she put out her arms and gathered the little girl lovingly into them. **It Is little Grace Meredith!" she exclaimed in wonder. ''Why, darling, how did you come here all alone.?" The lady pressed the child to her warm mother heart, and seating herself in a chair wiped away the tears from the sweet eyes. "I want my mamma," was all little Grace could say. The tears sprang suddenly to the lady's own sweet eyes. *'John," she whispered to her husband, who had left his paper and was regarding the group with cu- rious emotion. "John, go over, please, and tell Mr. Meredith his little girl is with us, safe and sound. And," she added, as the gentleman was about to leave, **ask him, please, to let her stay with us to-night. 48o HEART ECHOES. It will do her good to be with the children, poor, motherless little darling." The child looked at the gentleman with grave, questioning eyes, but said nothing. Her mother had been buried the day before, and her little heart was filled with longing for the dear ca- resses she had lived and thrived upon. ** I want my mamma," she said again, in tones that seemed to imply that they could give her what she so much desired. '* Yes, dear, "said the lady soothingly, tears dropping from her eyesuponthegolden head. *' Yes, dear, you shall have your mamma one of these days; one of the beautiful distant days when God in His goodness shall give the child back to its mother, and the mother to her child. Hush, darling, hush! Mamma is waiting for you way, way up beyond the shining stars, and, hJiART ECHOES. 481 you shall go to her, dear, when God has made you ready for the change." And so they soothed little Grace, and sang to her, and the boys brought out their playthings for her, and all were so good and gentle to her that for a time she forgot the soreness in her bosom and was happy. But that night, after the golden head had sunk wearily to rest, and a tiny white-robed form lay still in the crib that had been found for it, the beautiful lady's eyes overflowed as a tremulous sob reached her ear, and in her sleep little Grace again murmured her baby petition, **0h, Dod, I want my mamma, too." T HOLD it a religious duty To love and worship children s beauty. They've least the taint of earthly clod. They're freshest from the hand of God. — Campbell. TN the man whose childhood has known caresses, there is always a fiber of memory which can be touched to gentle issues. 482 HEART ECHOES. A REPLY TO INGERSOLL. — A. C. Wheeler. r^NE night, in the New York Acadamy of Music, after Mr. R. G. Ingersoll in one of his lectures had denounced religion, ridiculed reverence and per- formed his spiritual clown trick on the mercy seat of every one's sensibility, two rough looking young men were coming down the stairs, when one of them accosted the other with: **Well, Bill, he made a clean sweep of it, eh? There ain't nothing left." **Well, I [don't know," replied the other; '^I kinder feel that my old mother is there yet. She ain't lost her grip on me." I thought of this for a long time afterward. It was the answer of sentiment that came over the golden wires of that boy's memory and loyalty. There was an old woman somewhere who had woven her example and her love into the fiber of his man- hood, and he couldn't quite get away from her; and, somehow, all the irreverence of that lecture seemed to strike at her. And that old woman sits in the hearts of mil- HEART ECHOES, 4S3 lions, answering this sentimentalism with her mute but eloquent example. I have seen her everywhere, poor, care-worn, sitting- with her hands folded. Her work is done, and she is waiting- for eternity. I've heard the boy on the battlefield call for her. I've heard the dying wretch in the hospital murmur with stiffening lips, as he passed out into the dark Beyond, the name of mother. I've seen the wildest debauchee, in the orgies of his sin, brought up and sobered, as some wave from the past washed in upon his soul and brought with it the sweet and holy recollection of that mother. Talk about dimples! I kiss that withered and wrinkled hand. Honest chivalry could not do less. The very seams and scars upon her face are beauti- ful, noble, memorial; I look into your dim but un- complaining eyes, and remember how you poured all the affluence of a mother's heart upon your boys — how you went often hungry and thinly clad — how you clung to them with something like desperation — how many tears you shed that they never saw — how ma\.y wounds you bore that they never felt. I salute you. Christian mothers of America; you believe in God; poverty cannot dim the lustre of 4§4 If E ART ECHOES. your devotion, nor adversity bend the fiber of your faith. Your example, your precepts, your character have passed into the generation, and whenever any- thing more dangerous than sentimentalism assaults Christianity, millions of your sons who may not have kept all the commandments, nor practiced all your precepts, will rise up from one sea-washed limit of the republic to the other to defend the altars you have left behind. IV TAN is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. Love is but the estab- lishment of his early life, or a song piped in the in- tervals of the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, for space in the world's thought, and dominion over his fellow men. But a woman's whole life is a his- tory of the affections. The heart is her world; it is there her ambition strives for empire; it is there her avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on adventure; she embarks her whole soui in the traffic of affection, and, if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless, for it is a bankruptcy of the heart. — Irving. HEART ECHOES. 485 A VANISHING DREAM. nPHERE lies in the depths of every heart that dream of our youth, and the chastened wish of man- hood, which neither cares nor honors can ever extin- guish — the hope of one day resting from the pursuits which absorb us; of interposing between our old age and the tomb some tranquil interval of reflection, when, with feelings not subdued but softened, with passions not exhausted but mellowed, we may look calmly on the past without regret, and on the future without apprehension. But in the tumult of the world, this vision forever recedes as we approach it; the passions which have agitated our life disturb our latest hour; and we go down to the tomb, like the sun into the ocean, with no gentle and gradual withdraw- ing of the light of life back to the source which gave it, sullen in its beamless descent, with all its fiery glow, long after it has lost its power and splendor. TF the internal griefs of every man could be read ^ written on his forehead, how many who now ex- cite envy would appear to be objects of pity. 486 HEART ECHOES. TWENTY YEARS AGO. I've wander'd to the village, Tom, I've sat beneath the tree, Upon the school-house playing ground, that shelter'd you and me; But none were there to greet me, Tom, and few were left to know, HEART ECHOES. 487 That played with us upon the grass, some twenty- years ago. The grass is just as green, dear Tom; barefooted boys at play. Were sporting there as we did then, with spirits just as gay; But the master sleeps upon the hill, which coated o'er with snow. Afforded us a sliding place, just twenty years ago. The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, close by the spreading beach. Is very low; 'twas once so high, that we could almost reach; And kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom, I started so, To find that I had changed so much, since twenty years ago. 4SS HEART ECHOES, Down by the spring, upon an elm, you know I cut your name, Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom, and you did mine the same. Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark; 'twas dying sure, but slow, Just as the one whose name was cut, died tv/enty years ago. HEART ECHOES. 489 My lids have long been dry, dear Tom, but tears came to my eyes, i thought of those we loved so well, those early broken tf es ; I visited the old church-yard, and took some flowers to strew Upon the graves of those we loved, some twenty years ago. Some are in the church-yara laid, some sieep beneath the sea; But few are left of our old class, excepting you and me; 490 BE ART ECHOES. And when our time shall come, dear Tom, and we are called to go, I hope they'll lay us where we played, just twenty years ago. HEART ECHOES. 491 GRANDFATHER'S REVERIE. pRANDFATHER is old. His back is bent. In the street he sees the crowds of men looking dreadfully young, and walking frightfully swift. He wonders where all the old folks are. Once, when a boy, he could not find young people enough for him, and he sidled up to any young stranger he met on Sunday, wondering why God made the world so old. Now he goes to commencement to see his grandson take his degree, and is astonished at the youth of the audience. ''This is new," he says, **It did not use to be so fifty years ago." At meeting the minister seems surprisingly young, and the audience young. He looks around, and is aston- ished that there are so few venerable heads. The audience seems not decorous. They come in late, and hurry away early, clapping the door after them with irreverent bang. But grandfather is decorous, well mannered, early in his seat; if jostled, he jostles not again; elbowed, he returns it not again; crowded, he thinks no evil. He is gentlemanly to 492 HEART ECHOES. the rude, obliging to the insolent and vulgar ; for grandfather is a gentleman ; not puffed up with mere money, but edified with well-grown manliness. Time has dignified his good manners. It is night. The family are all abed. Grand- father sits by his old-fashioned fire. He draws his old-fashioned chair nearer to the hearth. On the stand which his mother gave him are the books he loves most ; the fire on the hearth is low. He has been thoughtful all day, talking to himself, chanting a bit of a verse, humming a snatch of an old tune. He kissed his pet grand-daughter more tenderly than common, before she went to bed. He takes out of his bosom a little locket ; nobody ever sees it. Therein are two little twists of hair. As grandfather looks at them, the outer twist of hair beccmes a whole head of ambrosial curls. He rememoers stolen interviews, meetings by moon- light. He remembers how sweet the evening star looked, and how he laid his hand on another's shoulder, and said: '*You are my evening star." The church clock strikes the midnight hour. He looks at the locket again. The other twist is the hair of his first-born son. At this same hour —Page 491. GRANDFATHER'S REVERIE. HEART ECHOES. 493 of midnight, once, many years ago, he knelt and prayed, when the agony was over: ''My God, I thank thee, that, though I am a father, I am still a husband. What am I, that unto me a life should be given, and another life spared ?" Now he has children, and children's children — the joy of his old age. But for many years his wife has looked to him from beyond the evening star. She is still the evening star herself; yet more beau- tiful; a star that never sets; not mortal with wife now, but angel. The last stick on his andirons snaps asunder, and falls outward. Two faintly smoking brands stand there. Grandfather lays them together, and they flame up; the two smokes are united in one flame. "Even so let it be in heaven," says grand- father. 'T^HE heart, like a tendril accustomed to cling. Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone. But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing It can twine to itself, and make closely its own. 494 HEART ECHOES. THE PRETTY BABY. i^ ISN'T he a pretty baby, John? See, just look at him ! " and the mother holds up the tiny crea- ture to papa, who kisses and fondles him lovingly. *' Yes, Kate, he is a pretty baby, but Tom was a pretty baby, too, you remember." ** Yes, Tom was a pretty baby — everybody said so," and she glances across the room at a sunny-faced four-year-old, '* but Willie is not like Tom. Willie's hair is light and his eyes," looking wistfully into the baby's face, ''are dark, and so deep that when I look in them I am almost afraid, they have such a far away light, they seem to see something we can not." ''Oh, nonsense! don't think that. He'll grow up to be a fine fellow. But, Kate, I wouldn't think so much about him; he is a dear, good little fellow, but I wouldn't worship him; it isn't right." "As if I could help it," the mother says re- proachfully, pressing the slight form closer and look- ing into the dark eyes yearningly, A month passes away, and one day they stand beside a small, white casket, within which the pretty HEART ECHOES. 495 baby is sleeping. Ah, the mother's eyes were sharp, and when friends said, ''what beautiful bright eyes he has," she saw the far away look and knew it as the light that never was on land or sea. ''Oh, John, John!" she moaned. "I knew he wasn't long for this world. I could see it in his eyes. Oh, my pretty baby ! " "Yes, dear, you were right," says papa, and there is a quiver in the firm voice; "if it had pleased God to have left him with us we would have cared for him the best we could, but we must give him up, for it is His will, and He knows what is best for us." "Yes, I know it," and she stoops and cuts a tiny wisp of hair from the baby's head. "Oh, John, you said I worshipped him. I did, oh, I did, and, God forgive me, I can't be sorry for it now, he was such a dear, pretty baby." Years pass on. Other babies are born. They are all pretty babies, every one who sees them says that, but none are like the baby with the far-away look. As they grow up, they love to gather around mother's chair, and she never tires of telling of the dark-eyed baby who went to live with God. And when, with childish curiosity, they open the Bible to look at the picture, and find between the leaves a 496 HEART ECHOES. tiny wisp of hair tied with white satin ribbon, they touch it reverently and whisper beneath their breath: **The pretty baby." Years still pass on. The children grow to be sturdy men and women, and as the mother watches them she sometimes thinks, **If he had lived he would have been such a beautiful man," and then she smiles and is glad that in heaven there is no time, and that no matter how the others may change, he is still the pretty baby." One day they gather around her bed, and, look- ing in each other's face, mournfully whisper; **She is dying!" She stretches her thin hand toward the table on which the old Bible rests, and they say: **The baby's hair." They place it in her hand. She kisses it tenderly and a bright light comes into the dim old eyes, and they say: '* What does she see.-*" She smiles and whispers: **The pretty baby." They place the wisp of hair on her breast and fold the wrinkled hands upon it, and tenderly lay her by the side of the pretty baby. HEART ECHOES, 497 A NAME IN THE SAND. A LONE I walk'd on the ocean strand. A pearly shell was in my hand; I stoop'd and wrote upon the sand My name, the year, the day. As onward from the spot I pass'd, One lingering look behind I cast — A wave came rolling high and fast. And wash'd my lines away. And so, methought, 'twill quickly be With every mark on earth with me; A wave of dark oblivion's sea Will sweep across the place Where I have trod the sandy shore Of time, and been to be no more; Of me, my day, the name I bore, To leave no track or trace. Yet on my heart, as not on sands. Inscribed by slow, relentless hands, 498 HEART ECHOES. I know a lasting record stands Inscribed against my name — Of all this mortal part has wrought, Of all this thinking soul has thought, All from these fleeting moments caught, For glory or for shame. ** REMEMBER ME." 'T^HERE are not two other words in the language that call back a more fruitful train of past re- membrances of friendship than these. Look through your library, and when you cast your eye upon a volume that contains the name of an old companion, it will say — remember me. Have you an ancient album, the repository of the mementoes of early affec- tion? Turn over its leaves, stained by the finger of time; sit down and ponder upon the names enrolled upon them — each says. Remember me. Go into the crowded churchyard, among the marble tombs; read the simple and brief inscriptions that perpetuate the memory of departed ones. They, too, have a voice that speaks to the hearts of the living, and it says, Remember me. Walk, in the hour of evening twi- HEART ECHOES. 499 light, amid the scenes of your early rambles. The well known paths, the winding streams, the over- spreading trees, the green and gently-sloping banks, will recall the dreams of juvenile pleasure, and the recollections of youthful companions. They, too, bear the treasured injunction. Remember me. And this is all that is left at last of the wide circle of our early friends. Scattered by fortune, or called away by death, or thrown without our band by the changes of circumstances or of character, in time we find ourselves left alone with the recollection of what they were. Some were our benefactors, and won us by their favors; others were kind, and amiable, and affectionate, and for this we esteemed them; others, again, were models of virtue, and shared our praise and admiration. It was thus a little while, and then the chances of the world broke in upon the de- lighted intercourse; it ceased. Yet still we do all we can to discharge the one sacred, and honest, and honorable debt — we remember them. The tribute, too, of remembrance which we de- light to pay to others we desire for ourselves. The wish for applause, the thirst for fame, the desire that our names should shine down to future posterity in the glory of recorded deeds is a feverish, unhappy 500 HEART ECHOES. passion compared with the unambitious desire to re- tain, even beyond the span of life, the affections of the warm-hearted few who share our joys and sorrows in the world. I once read the brief inscription ** Re- member me" on a tombstone, in a country church- yard, with a tear that the grave of Bonaparte would not have called forth. But whom do we always remember with affec- tion? The virtuous, the kind, the warm-hearted — those who have endeared themselves to us by the amiableness of their characters. It is the mind, the disposition, the habits, the feelings of our friends which attach us to them most strongly; which form the only lasting bond of affection; which alone can secure our affectionate remembrances. Then, if we would be remembered with the kind- liest feelings, if we would be embalmed in the mem- ory of those we love; if we desire that, when fortune or fate shall separate us from our friends, they may long think of us, we must ourselves possess the same character we love in others. Never was a more noble line written in the history of man than this: *'The first emotion of pain he ever caused was caused by his departure." © (T^ Ifatber's Si5e» ^ £-S> THE FATHER'S SIDE. A T every hearthstone around which the family gathers ^~^ there is the side where Father sits. Absent sometimes he may be, held away by outside affairs, but there is his fa- vorite chair, and there the corner where he is most often found. Sitting in restful silent thought, or busy with books and papers, or joining in the doings of the moment with those around him, he is the king of the hour. Here the little babe first learns to know him, and learns to note his going and watch for his coming. Here the questions that have been held for his decision are answered. Here he is arbiter, judge and chief counsel; his frown the first penalty, and his smile or word of approval the highest re- ward that childhood knows. The father Is to his family very much what his newspaper is to him. He brings to them the news of all the near world just outside the household. He is especially the teacher of distant things and far places. Was it not little Charlie that watched from the window and saw Papa go right amongst all the 503 504 FATHER'S SIDE. people and lose himself, and Charlie cried when he could see him no more, and believed that he never would see him again; but Papa came back and brought Charlie a picture of the new cars. Papa knows. Did not Lucy watch Papa go far out across the fields, so far, clear be- yond the big tree, which was farther than Lucy had ever been, and still farther he went, till the tears filled little Lucy's eyes, and Mamma's most earnest words could scarcely reassure her; but Papa came back, bringing baskets full of such sweet-corn and melons as Lucy had surely never known before in all her life. Papa knows. So at the leisure hour in the home he sits on his favorite side and the little ones ask, ''What is a mountain?" Then, to picture a hill mountain high, he teaches them to im- agine the neighbors' houses piled one after another on Uncle Jim's house and covered with 'stones and trees and "our house" placed a-top of all these as they Hsten; even thus does the child's opinion of a Father's knowledge and power rise and tower up, mountain high. Lideed, no man is so narrow and dull as to not appreciate the high position a father holds. A man may seem selfish who cuts his work off promptly in the afternoon and leaves his day's associations in time to join in an hour of joyous wakefulness at home, but such selfishness is of the most commendable kind, because his lessons and his example FATHER'S SIDE. 505 and his own character are impressed on the children to be carried down into hfe by them and repeated again and again; so that the influence of each clean-minded, truth- ful, loving father goes down through all eternity. The Mother by love alone teaches and moulds the feel- ings and sentiments of the children, while the father leads them out among things and affairs; and hence it has been said that Mother rules in the heart, and Father in the mind. This is true in a general way only, for each of tlie parents share in the influence and work of the other, and every father knows the value and the force of love, pure and simple. He is not ashamed of tears of affection. I was one day talking over the details of a large contract with one of the brightest and most ambitious business men of our day, a man of large success. At a lull in our labors I asked him, "What odd bit of jewelry is that you carry on your watch guard?" "That," he answered, "is my little Hattie's ring. She would be five years old next month if she had lived," and tears were covering his cheeks in an instant, to be wiped away with trembling hands. No apologies were thought of, there were no further words on the subject, and he showed not a shad- ow of embarrassment as the business in hand was re- sumed. Was that weakness? No. Strength, rather, of 5o6 FATHER'S SIDE. the rarest and purest and best kind. In the minds and hearts of such Fathers the Uttle "Hatties" though sleeping are not dead, but Hving on, happy members of "the choir invisible," ever touching the most beautiful chords in the music of the soul. All living and all loving are mutual; whether we will it or not, it is so. For while the Father feeds the desires of his own heart in hastening to fill his place at home he knows full well that he is imprinting in the memories of the children such pictures of himself as will last throughout their lives. o THE HAPPY HOME. — Martin F. Tupper. HAPPY home! O, bright and cheerful hearth! y Look round with me, my lover, friend, and wife, On these fair faces we have lit with life, And in the perfect blessing of their birth, Help me to live our thanks for so much heaven on earth. FATHER'S SIDE. 507 THESE TWO, CROWN THEM! r^ HARLBS DICKENS in England and Eugene Field ^^ in America are the two notably great geniuses who shed their finest and mellowest lights on the children. Of all writers in the English language these two — fathers of children of their own — seem to have had the richest, deepest and broadest sympathy for childhood and child- life. Dickens not only trained his flights of fancy in the atmosphere of young humanity, but he impressed his opinions on the politics of his country and secured the passage of laws that are of the greatest benefit to child life in England, and that will stand forever as the grandest monument to the practical worth of his great and loving heart. In the reveries of a school teacher Dickens wrote in verse as follows: When the lessons and tasks are all ended, And the school for the day is dismissed, And the little ones gather around me To bid me good-night and be kissed; Oh, the little white arms that encircle My neck in a tender embrace ; 5o8 FATHER1S SIDE. Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven Shedding sunshine of love on my face. And when they are gone, I sit dreaming Of my childhood, too lovely to last; Of love that my heart will remember When it wakes to the pulse of the past, Ere the world and its wickedness made me A partner of sorrow and sin, 'When the glory of God was about me, And the glory of gladness within. Oh, my heart grows weak as a woman's, And the fountain of feeling will flow When I think of the paths, steep and stony, Where the feet of dear ones must go; Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them, Of the tempest of Fate blowing wild; Oh, there is nothing on earth half so holy As the innocent heart of a child. They are idols of heart and of household; They are angels of God in disguise; His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses. His glory still gleams in their eyes; FATHER'S SIDE. 509 Oh, those truants from home and from heaven, They have made me more manly and mild. And I know now how Jesus could liken The Kingdom of God to a child. I ask not a life for the dear ones All radiant, as others have done. But that life may have just enough shadow To temper the glare of the sun; I would pray God to guard them from evil. But my prayer would bound back to myself; Ah! a seraph may pray for a sinner But a sinner must pray for himself. The twig is so easily bended, I have banished the rule and the rod; I have taught them the goodness of knowledge They have taught me the goodness of God; My heart is the only deep dungeon Where I shut them from breaking a rule; My frown is sufficient correction; My love is the law of the school. I shall leave the old house in the autumn, To traverse its threshold no more; 51,0 FATHER'S SIDE. Ah ! how I shall sigh for the dear ones, That meet me each day at the door; I shall miss the "good-nights" and the kisses, And the gush of their innocent glee, The group on the green, and the flowers That are brought every morning to me. I shall miss them at morn and at evening Their song in the school and the street; I shall miss the low hum of the voices, And the tramp of their delicate feet. When the lessons and tasks are all ended. And death says, "The school is dismissed;" May the little ones gather around me. To bid me good-night and be kissed. Eugene Field, the newspaper man par excellence, the hail fellow well met, the roysterer amongst jolly compan- ions the practical joker and inveterate wit, seemed to melt right down into expressions of tenderness and sympathy when children were in question. He understood chil- dren as they understand themselves and each other. He talked back to them in their own words, and in their own thought and methods of thought. His book of poems FATHER'S SIDE. 511 for juveniles is a compendium of the phases of child-Hfe, a dictionary of child-thought. These two, Charles Dickens in England and Eugene Field in America, have done more perhaps than all other writers combined to raise juvenile work to its present rank and give childhood a prominent place in the litera- ture, life and thought of the age. They were fathers. What mother ever over-matched the sweet solicitude of heart expressed in Field's verses which follow: 'Last night, my darling, as you slept, I thought I heard you sigh. And to your little crib I crept. And watched a space thereby; And then I stooped and kissed your brow, For oh ! I love you so — You are too young to know it now, But some time you shall know! Some time when, in a darkened place Where others come to weep. Your eyes shall look upon a face Calm in eternal sleep; The voiceless lips, the wrinkled brow, The patient smile shall show — • 512 FATHER'S SIDE. You are too young to know it now, But some time you may know. Look backward, then, into the years. And see me here to-night — vSee! O, my darHng! how my tears Are f aUing as I write ; And feel once more upon your brow The kiss of long ago — You are too young to know it now, But some time you shall know! This beautiful poem has prompted several others of sim- ilar tenor, one of the best being by Sam Walter Foss, a writer in the New York Sun. He takes Field's lines, *'He is too young to know it now, But some day he will know," as a text, and writes what he calls "A Life Story" as fol- lows : Above her little sufferer's bed. With all a Mother's grace. She stroked the curly, throbbing head. And smoothed the fevered face; FATHER'S SIDE. 513 'He does not know my love, my fears, My toil of heart and hand; But some day in the after years. Some day he'll understand; Some day he'll know I loved him so, Some day he'll understand." A wild lad plays his thoughtless part As fits his childhood's lot. And tramples on his mother's heart Ofttimes and knows it not. He plays among his noisy mates Nor knows his truest friend; His mother sighs, as still she waits, "Some day he'll comprehend; The day will be When he will see; Some day he'll comprehend." The strong youth plays his strenuous part; His mother waits alone, And soon he finds another heart The mate unto his own. SI4 FATHER'S SIDE. She gives him up in joy and woe, He takes his young bride's hand, His mother murmurs, "Will he know And ever understand? When will he know I love him so; When will he understand?" The strong man fights his battling days, The fight is hard and grim. His mother's plain, old-fashioned ways, Have little charm for him. The dimness falls around her years. The shadows 'round her stand. She mourns in loneliness and tears, ''He'll never understand. He'll never know I loved him so; He'll never understand." A bearded man of serious years Bends down above the dead. And rains the tribute of his tears Above an old, gray head. PATHEIVS SIDE. He stands the open grave above, Amid the mourning bands; And now he knows his mother's love And now he understands. Now doth he know She loved him so, And now he understands. 513 So the work of Dickens and Field is as a fair harvest whose grain is the new seed that is bringing new flower and fruit in ever widening abundance. And so it is that every Mother and every Father, and every teacher, and every lover of children (and who is not that?) are granting wreaths of fresh sweet blossoms in honor and gratitude to the memory of these two great dead; in England Charles Dickens; in America, Eugene Field. 5i6 FATHERS SIDE. A VISION. — Edna Dean Proctor. T OW hung the moon, the wind was still, ■^ As slow I climbed the midnight hill, And passed the ruined garden o'er, And gained the barred and silent door, Sad welcomed by the lingering rose That, startled, shed its waning snows. The bolt flew back with sudden clang; I entered; wall and rafter rang; Down dropped the moon, and, clear and high, September's wind went wailing by; "Alas!" I sighed, "the love and glow That lit this mansion long ago !" And groping up the threshold stair, And past the chambers cold and bare, I sought the room where glad of yore We sat the blazing fire before. And heard the tales a father told. Till glow was gone and evening old. FATHER'S SIDE. 517 Where were those rosy children three? The boy beneath the moaning sea; Sweet Margaret, down where violets hide, 'Slept tranquil, by that father's side; And I, alone, a pilgrim still. Was left to climb the midnight hill. My hand was on the latch, when lo! 'Twas lifted from within ! I know I was not wild, and could I dream? Within I saw the wood-fire gleam, And smiling, waiting, beckoning there, My father, in his ancient chair! O, the long rapture, perfect rest. As close he clasped me to his breast! Put back the braids the wind had blown, Said I had like my mother grown, And bade me tell him, frank as she, All the long years had brought to me. Then by his side, his hand in mine, I tasted joy serene, divine, Si8 FATHER'S SIDI^. And saw my griefs unfolding fair, As flowers in June's enchanted air. So warm his words, so soft his sighs, Such tender lovelight in his eyes. "O, Death!" I cried, "if these be thine, For me the asphodels entwine; Fold me within thy perfect calm; Leave on my lips thy kiss of balm ; And let me slumber, pillowed low, With Margaret where the violets blow!" And still we talked. O'er cloudy bars Orion bore his pomp of stars; Within the wood-fire fainter glowed; Weird on the wall the shadows showed; Till, in the east, a pallor born Told midnight melting into morn. Then nearer to his side I drew, When lo! the cock, remorseless, crew! A glance, a sigh — we did not speak — • Fond kisses on my brow and cheek. A sudden sense of rapture flown, And in the dawn I sat alone! FATHER'S SIDE. 519 Tis true his rest this many a year Has made the village church-yard dear; 'Tis true his stone is graven fair, "Here lies, remote from mortal care," I cannot tell how both may be, But well I know he talked with me. And oft, when other fires are low, I sit within that midnight glow ! My head upon his shoulder leant, His tender glances downward bent, And win the dream to sweet delay Till stars and shadows yield to day. np HERE is nothing which helps us to feel that our lives -■• have been worth living as the humble but grateful consciousness that we have helped some other soul to fulfil its destiny. 520 FATHER'S SIDE. THREE PRAYERS. I. A LITTLE child with flaxen hair, ^^ And sunht eyes so sweet and fair, Who kneels when twilight darkens all, And from those loving lips there fall The accents of this simple prayer; "Dod bess! — Dod bess my muvzer!" IL A youth upon life's threshold wide. Who leaves a gentle mother's side, Yet keeps enshrined within his breast Her words of warning — still the best; And whispers when temptation-tried: "God bless! — God bless my mother!" HL A white-haired man who gazes back Along life's weary furrowed track, And sees one face — an angel's now! — Hears words of light that led aright, And prays with reverential brow: "God bless! God bless my mother." FATHER'S SIDE. 521 CHILDHOOD'S LOVES. T T is a distinct loss to any child to grow up alone, with- ^ out brothers or sisters. The early friendships and at- tachments are as much a source of after strength and wise motive as any other developing force in childhood. The writer saw not long since a touching scene in which the children were the leading actors, illustrative of this point. As the Great Western train rolled slowly into the Un- ion Depot one evening a fashionably dressed gentleman and lady stood just outside the gate, waiting. Between them, and holding the hand of each, stood a little girl not over five years old. "Mama, is brother coming this time?" she asked with the eagerness of a sudden thought. The mother shook her head sadly, then glanced into her husband's eyes. In an instant more the child dropped the hands which she was holding and darted through the gate before her parents or the gateman could stop her. When the former reached her she had thrown her arms around the neck of a manly little fellow about a head taller than herself, and was sobbing: 522 Fathj^r'S sid:s. "Oh, Brother, did you come back? Mama didn't 'spect you 'tall. It'll just 'sprise her." Meantime the little fellow strugg^led to free himself from her embrace and protested: "Le' go! I ain't your brother." "Yes, you is. You do be brother. I'm Tootsey an' you do knows me," insisted the little girl, and her small arms refused to be shaken from their grasp about his neck. Through their tears her parents explained to the father and mother of the boy that a few months before they had lost a child closely resembling the boy whom "Tootsey" had mistaken for her brother, and had explained to her that "brother had gone away." As the children were forcibly separated the grief of the little girl drew tears from all who crowded about the weeping group. "Won't he never, never, come back, mama?" were the last words heard by the bystanders as the father car- ried her up the central stairway in his arms. FATHER'S SIDE. 523 CHRISTENING THE HOME. — Dora Reed Ooodale. np HE final blow was struck to-day, ^ The final nail was driven; The last young workman's got his pay, Picked up his axe and chisels — nay. Just touched his cap and gone away, And left us here, thank Heaven ! It's bare, but we'll dispense to-night With hangings and wall paper; I'll start a blaze and strike a light. And bring our basket for a bite. And you shall spread the board aright^ And — ^well, we're here together. That bench is just the seat for two — Be careful while I move it; I'll fold my coat across for you — Don't mind a little paint and glue. There! what could finest workman do (Forgive me !) to improve it? 524 FATHER'S SIDE. And so it's done — it's really done, Past making or refusing; Another widening life begun, And all our doubtful fancies run To solid walls in wind and sun, Our own, and of our choosing! Imagine this in gold and gray, The happy hearth a-glitter. Thick stufifs to keep the cold away, Deep shelves of books — in vellum, say- And beaten brasses, repousse. Instead of chips and litter! Here we shall sit, and leave the town To languish — Heaven befriend her! You in your most bewitching gown, I with my paper — upside down — And toasting both my slippers brown Before me on the fender! A cottage stood here long ago, Knee-deep in grass and clover — On this sam.e spot. Esthetic? No. A cabin, maybe, thatched and low. FATHER'S SIDE. 525 A little maid in calico, A clever-handed lover. How life, unerring, comes and goes, The very same — or nearly ; Like us, they dreamed of these and those; They ate and drank, and planned and chose, And loved? — a little, I suppose; But oh, not half so dearly! No doubt they saw the splendor die, Night coming — they must bear it — Youth, hope, and passion slipping by, The laughter spent, the tears run dry; But did they love, as you and I? No, never! I could swear it! Who ever loved a wife like mine? Have done with vain denying! To-morrow's sun is sure to shine. And why should we in doubt repine Come, pledge our fate in cider wine And make an end of crying! 526 FATHERS SIDE. A BLESSING O'ER A NEW HOUSE. — Aubrey De Vere. I BLESS this new raised threshold; let us pray * That never faithless friend, insulting foe, O'er tliis pure stone their hateful shadows throw: May the poor gather round it day by day. I bless this hearth: sweet children here shall play: Here may their graces and their virtues grow: May sin defile it not; and want and woe And sickness seldom come, nor come to stay. I bless thy house. I consecrate the whole To God. It is His temple. Let it be ^Worthy of Him, confided thus to thee. Man's dwelling, like its lord, enshrines a soul: It hath great destinies, wherein do lie, Self-sown, the seeds of immortality. i^^URVED is the line of Beauty; ^"^ (Straight is the line of Duty; Walk by the last, and thou wilt see The other ever follow thee. FATHERS SIDE. 527 OVERHEARD ON A HOTEL VERAlsIDA. K T OiW that our conversation has turned upon the na- -*■ ^ ture and training of children, I will venture to tell you a bit of my own experience. I learn from your statements that both of you, though several years younger than myself, are married men, and fathers. The seclusion of this vine-clad veranda and the curtain of the coming twilight will give me courage to tell a story which has the nature of a confession from me. I surely hope that neither of you, gentlemen, will ever fall into such a mistake as I once made. Out of five children I had but one girl. She had rather boyish features and was most fond of her father. She had a soul so sensitive as to remind one of that little shrinking plant which curls at a breath and shuts its heart from the light. She was not what strangers would at first sight call a pretty child. The only beauties she possessed were an exceedingly transparent skin and most mournful, large, deep eyes. I had been trained by very stern, strict, conscientious parents, but I was a hardy 528 FATHER'S SIDE. plant, rebounding after every shock; misfortune could not daunt, though discipline tamed me. Never having learned that higher blending of truth and love which transcends all mere "discipline" I fancied that I must take my child, this delicate creature, through the same rou- tine. One day when she had displeased me exceedingly by repeating an ofifense, I was determined to punish her severely. I was very serious all day, and upon sending her to her little couch, I said: "Now, my daughter, to punish you, and show you how very, very naughty you have been, I shall not kiss you to-night." She stood looking at me, astonishment personified, with her great mournful eyes wide open — I suppose she had forgotten her misconduct till then, and I left her with big tears dropping down her cheeks, and h^er little red lips quivering. Presently I was sent for. "Oh, papa, you will kiss me; I can't go to sleep if you don't!" she sobbed, every tone of her voice trembling, as she held out her little hands. Now came the struggle between impulsive love and what I falsely termed duty. My heart said give her the kiss of peace, my stern na- ture urged me to persist in my correction that I might impress a lesson on her mind. That was the way I had been trained, till I was a most submissive child, and I re- FATHERS SIDE. 529 membered how often I had thanked my parents since for their straightforward course. I knelt by the bedside. "Papa can't kiss you, Ellen," I whispered, though every word choted me. Her hand touched mine; it was very hot, but I attributed it to her excitement. She turned her little grieving face to the wall ; I blamed myself as the fragile form shook with half suppressed sobs, and saying: "Papa hopes little Ellen will learn to mind him after this," left the room for the night. Alas, in my determination to be stern, I forgot to be forgiving. It must have been one o'clock when I was awakened. I was called to the child's bed-room. I had had a fearful dream. Ellen did not know me. She was sitting up, crimsoned from the forehead to the throat; her eyes so bright that I almost drew back aghast at their glances. From that hour a raging fever drank up her life; and what think you was the incessant plaint that poured into my anguished heart? *'0h, kiss me. Papa, do kiss me; I can't go to sleep." "You'll kiss your little Ellen, Papa, won't you? I can't go to sleep." "I won't be naughty if you'll kiss me." "Oh, kiss me, dear Papa, I can't go to sleep." Holy little angel. She did go to sleep one gray morning, and she never woke again, never. Her hand was locked in mine, and all my veins grew icy with its gradual chill. Faintly the S30 FATHER'S SIDE. light faded out of the beautiful eyes; whiter and whiter grew the tremulous lips. She never knew me, but with her last breath she whispered: "I will be good, papa, if you'll kiss me." Kiss her? God knows how passionate but un- availing were my kisses upon her cheek and lips after that first fatal night. God knows how wild were my prayers that she might know, if but only once, that I kissed her. God knows how I would have yielded up my very life could I have asked forgiveness of that sweet child. Well, grief is unavailing now; she lies in her little tomb. There is a marble urn at her head, and a rose bush at her feet; there grow summer flowers; there waves the slender grass ; there the blue sky smiles down to-day, and there lies buried some of the freshness of a mistaken father's heart. FATHER'S SIDE. 531 Since then I have thought deeply upon child-punish- ment and I am convinced that restraint to secure obedi- ence should be the limit of punishment, and that such restraint should end on the instant the child shows signs of yielding obedience. Never should there be some cer- tain penalty set down for a certain offense; it were better to know of no such thing as an offense. Note that you can make children naughty by reading a list of offenses to them just as you can make grown people ill by reading symptoms of disease to them. Truth, trust and love do not tarry in the company of these ideas. I have become the avowed champion of children whenever and wherever I find that the notion of a born tendency to duplicity is held against them ; contrary to such notion, I assert that an abiding faith in the natural purity of the little ones lias never, never been proven to be misplaced. I\ yi ONEY and time are the heaviest burdens of life, and ^^ ^ the unhappiest of all mortals are those who have more of either than they know how to use. 532 FATHER'S SIDE. A POET CHILD. T II 7"HAT is its past? What story in its eyes? ' * Each child within your fold Bears stamp of single mould; No two are like, oh father, loving, wise. In some forgotten chronicle of old This story I have read; And I have heard it said Rosetti wept, when he had heard it told. When Eve, from Eden forced, had turned her face, To pity then inclined, God made within her mind Grow dim the memory of that blissful place. And, during many after days of toil, Many a child was born That knew not of that morn Before in sweat she learned to till the soil. FATHER'S SIDE. 533 They were content ; contented in their lot. Born back again to dust, They Hved, as Hve they must, Contented — for of Eden they knew not. Thus God with mercy tempered what seemed hate. So that men, knowing not Their former bHssful lot They should not utterly be desolate. But after many years a child was born, A child unlike the rest; And when under her breast Eve pressed it, then she wept a child forlorn. "Better this child," she said, "were in its grave; For in his longing eyes Glimpses of Paradise And long forgotten trees of Eden wave." And everlasting is our mother's pain; For oft at eve or morn Some poet-child is born Who hears those sounds of Eden once again. 534 FATHER'S SIDE. Who hears those sounds, and sees ideal things Not limned in earthly light — Not seen of common sight — Nor known by any sense that reason brings. Of these were prophets, Krishnas, Christ, and Seers; Of these our Teachers now — They of enhaloed brow. 'Tis they who seek and find The Eden state of mind, Whose knowing scorns the bounds of space and years. WISDOM'S PATHS. —rWordsworth. ? T^ IS not in battles that from youth we train ■*• The governor who must be wise and good, Nor temper with the sternness of the brain Thoughts motherly and meek as womanhood. Wisdom doth live with children round her knees: Books, leisure, perfect wisdom, and the talk Man holds with week-day man in the hourly walk Of the mind's business: these are the degrees By which true sway doth mount ; this is the stalk True Power doth grow on ; and her rights are these. FATHER'S SIDE. 535 IN A GREAT CITY. 'T* HE following incident was related to me a short time "'' since by a friend who had it from an eye witness of the occurrence. It happened in the great city of New York, on a bright, frosty day in February. A little boy about nine years old was standing before a shoe store in Broadway, barefooted, peering through the window and shivering with cold. A lady riding up the street in a beautiful carriage, drawn by fine horses, observed the little fellow in his forlorn condition, and im- mediately drew up and stopped in front of the store. The lady, richly dressed in silk, alighted from her carriage, went quietly to the boy and said: "My little fellow, why are you looking so earnestly in that window ?'' "I was just asking God to give me a pair of shoes," was his reply. The lady took him by the hand and went into the store and asked the proprietor if he would allow one of his clerks to go and buy her a half-dozen pairs of stockings for the boy. He readily assented. She then asked him if he could give her a basin of water and a towel, and he replied, "Certainly," and quickly brought them to her. 536 FATHER'S SIDE. She took the Httle fellow to the back part of the store, and, removing her gloves, knelt dovv^n, washed those lit- tle feet and dried them with the towel. By this time the young man had returned with the stockings. Placing a pair upon his feet, she purchased and gave him a pair of shoes, tied up the remaining pairs of stockings, gave them to him, and patting him on the head, said: "I hope, my little fellow, that you now feel more comfortable." The boy had been speechless in his astonishment, but as she turned to go he caught her hand, and looking up in her face, with tears in his eyes, answered her ques- tion with these words: "Are you God's wife?" FATHER'S SIDE. 537 "TIRED." " 13 APA, won't '00 play with me?" '■ Teased little golden head, As she cHmbed upon my knee, Before she went to bed. "Your papa's tired, little one. So, come now, say your prayers. Get your little nighty on And go with Jane upstairs." I heard a weary, baby sigh. As the tired child knelt down, A tear stood in the bright, blue eye ; It fell on the white night-gown. This was the end of the baby prayer. So earnest and devout : "And, Dod, fordive my papa, dear, For bein' tired out.'' 538 FATHER'S SIDE. Two weary, lonesome years have flown Since I listened to that prayer, For God so loved the little one, He took her to His care. And even now I hear that prayer, And hear that sigh again ; I see the baby kneeling there, As plainly now as then. Tired? Yes, I'm tired still. And more so, day by day, I only wait the dear Lord's will. To go to her and play. FROM THE GREEK. /^^LING to thy home! if there the meanest shed ^-^ Yield thee a hearth and shelter for thy head, And some poor plot, with vegetables stored Be all that Heaven allots thee for thy board, — Unsavory bread, and herbs that scattered grow Wild on the river brink or mountain brow, Yet e'en this cheerless mansion shall provide More heart's repose than all the world beside. FATHER'S SIDE. 539 INSPIRATIONS. F^ ATHERS often exercise much influence in selecting "*■ a life-work for their children. This is wise, if not pushed to an extreme. By all means, however, give the young a chance to show natural tendencies and express preferences. The yearning of the spirit is often the surest call. Let every person, young and old, breathe in and feel the beauty and truth expressed in these lines : Chisel in hand stood a sculptor boy, With his marble block before him: — And his face lit up with a smile of joy As an angel dream passed o'er him. He carved that dream on the yielding stone With many a sharp incision: In Heaven's own light the sculpture shone — He had caught that angel vision. Sculptors of life are we, as we wait, With our lives uncarved before us; 540 FATHER'S SIDE. The hour inspired, when, early or late, Our life dream passes o'er us. Let us carve it then on the yielding stone With many a sharp incision: Its marvelous beauty shall be our own — Our lives, that angel vision. WILL THEY LOVE ME? T NOTICED a very seriously intended article by some -* one of the magazine writers not long since, in which this statement was taken as a text: "Every father some- times asks himself, 'Will my children love me when I am old?'" I do not believe it. Or at least it must be very seldom that such an unnatural pale-faced question comes to a well regulated good honest father who has hearty red blood in his veins. "Will my children love me? Why certainly they will," and in the exuberance of life and health he forgets that old age is a thing dreaded by many people, people who would resent being told how shallow and thoughtless such a dread really is. The answer given to the question, "Will my children FATHER'S SIDE. 541 love me when I am old," is well worth quoting. It was put very flatly, thus: "If other folks thoroughly respect you your children will love you." There is much wis- dom in this reply. The life that wins the daily esteem of neighbors and business associates commands the respect and love of those nearer to us. . But there must come hours when this question will rise up — this anticipation of age — and to loving fathers it will certainly suggest changed conditions between par- ent and child. It is well to settle such questions in fore- thought, and not let them take one by surprise. In the first place, I do not think it the proper thing to retire wholly from an active life as years come on. Why lay down all the armor before the battle is wholly done? An extraordinarily wise old proverb runs as fol- lows: "Father, if thou hast two houses, thou mayest give one to thy son; but retain one for thine own self." One may read this proverb from several points of view with profit. Again, is old age necessarily weak and de- pendent? Not at all. Let us check a very common error by refusing to think it, remembering that what we expect comes to us. 'Health, increasing mental activity and strength of purpose are the true fruits of increasing years. Every period in human life has its peculiar pleas- 542 FATHER'S SIDE. ures, honors, joys; and rightly approached, the last years of the body's visible life should crown all that come be- fore. Every man can be and should be as vigorous, hardy, happy and commanding at eighty as at forty ; and every woman, too, for that matter. It is a common ex- perience to hear some one say: ''How fine looking Mrs. is. She must have been a beautiful girl.'' And to hear the reply: "No, she was not nearly as good looking in her youth as she is now. Her beauty has developed with her years." And it may have been observed that this is said oftenest of men and women of high character. Nobility will tell upon the outward aspect. The carriage of the figure, the pose of the head, the expression of the face — these come to reveal, more and more, with the lapse of time, the inner life. There is something more than a mere pretty sentiment intended, where we read of "The beautiful face that is given to all who love in the true spirit of the Universal Brotherhood of Man." Unselfishness, sin- cerity, thoughtfulness, refinement — all of these graces of character which are worth so much more than mere out- ward shape and color — lend their charm to those who have consistently cherished them, until at sixty they may really become beautiful. It is noticeable that art is more and more recognizing FATHER'S SIDE. 543 this idea. Some of the most famous pictures are those which, without presenting a single figure of great physi- cal beauty, illustrate the nobler emotions of the heart. Such is "The Breaking of Home Ties," which has at- tracted so much attention at Chicago recently ; also "The Mourning Brave," and Briton Riviere's "Requiescat" (though a dog was here the touching exponent of a grand quality), and that wonderful "Last Muster." All such pictures are incentives to truer feeling and to nobler en- deavor. The beauty which appeals merely to the eye must always be less real and less impressive than that which strikes upon the heart and thrills it to its core. Conversely, mean traits of character — selfishness, parsimony, irritability, jealousy — shadow the face of their owner more and more as time goes on, reminding one of the old man in "Evangeline," whose "thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as they freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter." An old person who possesses low qualities, no matter how handsome he may have been in his youth, becomes repul- sive in his age. The poets have not neglected to make mention of the charms which old age may reveal. There are many passages which will occur to any one who will take the 544 FATHER'S SIDE. trouble to reflect on the subject, but one in special is so fine that it ought to be quoted, describing a manly old man: What attractions are these beyond any before? What bloom, more than the bloom of youth. And another, often quoted: Youth, large, lusty, loving youth, full of grace, force, fascination. Do you know that Old Age may come after you, with equal grace, force, fascination? s TO FATHERS. PEAK gently to the children, nor wound the tender heart, The time may not be distant when you and they must part; So just forget the worries and the battles you've to fight. And in the quiet evening kiss them a warm "Good-night." FATHER'S SIDE. 545 They, too, are swiftly nearing the battle-field of life ; And lest they should be worsted in the fight with sin and strife, Oh, gird them with the armor of a father's perfect love — A shining, pure example of power within, above. The trials that await them in the far off after years. The happy childish laughter may melt to bitter tears. The bonnie curls that cluster around your darling's brow, The ruthless hand of sorrow may render white as snow. Ah ! then the recollection of a father's tender care May smooth life's rugged pathway — may. save from many a snare; And in the hush of even, as in the days of yore. In fond imagination they'll feel your kiss and more. 'Twill cool the burning forehead, 'twill raise their trust in God, When the loving lips that gave it are cold beneath the sod; The hardest heart will soften — the tear-dimmed eyes grow bright At childhood's happy memories of a father's kind "Good- night." 546 FATHER'S SIDE. HOME LIFE. — John Clare. OTHE out-of-door blessings of home life for me, ) Health, riches, and joy — it includes them all three; There Peace comes to me — I have faith in her smile — She's my playmate in leisure, my comfort in toil. I walk round the orchard on sweet summer eves, And rub the perfume from the black currant leaves, Which, like the geranium when touched, leave a smell That lad's love and sweet brier can hardly excel. So I sit on my bench, or I rest in the shade; My toil is a pastime, while using the spade; My fancy is free in her pleasure to stray, Making voyages round the whole world in a day. Then I sit by the fire, in the dark winter's night. While the cat cleans her face with her foot in delight; And the winds all a-cold with rude clatter and din Shake the windows, like robbers who want to come in. Like a thing of the desert, alone in its glee, I make a small home seem an empire to me; Like a bird in the forest, whose world is its nest. My home is my all, and the center of rest. FATHER'S SIDE. 547 PHANTOMS. — Henry W. Longfellow. A LL houses wherein men have lived and died ^'*- Are haunted houses. Through the open doors The harmless phantoms on their errands glide, With feet that make no sound upon the floors. We meet them at the doorway on the stair. Along the passages they come and go, Impalpable impressions on the air, A sense of something moving to and fro. There are more guests at table than the hosts Invited; the illuminated hall Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts. As silent as the pictures on the wall. The stranger at my fireside cannot see The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear; But he perceives what is; while unto me All that has been is visible and clear. We have no title-deeds to house or lands; Owners and occupants of earlier dates. 548 FATHER'S SIDE. From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands And hold in mortmain still their old estates. The spirit world around this world of sense Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere Wafts through these earthly mists and vapors dense A vital breath of more ethereal air. Our little lives are kept in equipoise By opposite attractions and desires; The struggle of the instinct that enjoys And the more noble instinct that aspires. The perturbations, the perpetual jar Of earthly wants and aspirations high, Come from the influence of that unseen star, That undiscovered planet in our sky. And as the moon, from some dark gate of cloud, Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of Hght, Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd. Into the realm of mystery and night, So from the world of spirits there descends A bridge of light connecting it with this. O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends. Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss. FATHER'S SIDE. 549 HASTEN SLOWLY. TT HAS been estimated that if all human beings would "*■ labor faithfully, with equal devotion to practical re- sults, less than four hours per day would secure to every one on earth all the needs of life, leaving the remainder of the time for the prosecution of new discoveries, the care of the helpless, the development of social qualities and all educational, mental and spiritual advancements. Instead of this wise arrangement, however, the common ideal of success in these times leads to a rush, a hurry, a strife, and labor to the very limits of human endurance to gather together an accumulation or to secure fame. The accursed lessons of personal greed and ambition are taught to our young on every hand. Even in our schools and from our pulpits we hear that life is a race and that the race is to the strong, the vigilant, the aggressive, the persistent and persevering. These ideals have been taught so long that nearly all our brilliant and able peo- ple now seem desperately determined to live up to the law of the survival of the fittest, pausing but seldom, even, to insult or pauperize the less fit with ''gifts" or 550 FATHER'S SIDE. "charity." A great truth is not yet clearly seen, namely, that the laws of evolution, rolling up like waves on crea- tion's sea, coming to man, strike the shores of the Infinite and are turned back upon themselves; the secret law of Sacrifice which bends the very highest willingly to the good of the very lowest is triumphant, wave meets wave, and the waters are stilled into quiet and peace. This truth our teachers are just beginning to make tangible to us. One of the most valuable lessons a father can impress on the child who has reached maturity touches this point. Together, let father and child remember that amidst hurry true wisdom takes time. Be not carried away. Steady. Amidst rush and boom rest a little and consider. To- gether read Richard E. Burton's matchless poem which is given below, and let its pathetic truth rest in the heart. If I had the time to find a place And sit me down full face .to face With my better self, that stands no show In my daily life that rushes so; It might be then I would see my soul Was stumbling still toward the shining goal; I might be nerved by the thought sublime, If I had the time! FATHER'S SIDE. 551 If I had the time to let my heart Speak out and take in my life a part, To look about and to stretch a hand To a comrade quartered in no-luck land; Ah, God! If I might but just sit still And hear the note of the whip-poor-will, I think that my wish with God's would rhyme — If I had the time! If I had the time to learn from you How much for comfort my word could do ; And I told you then of my sudden will To kiss your feet when I did you ill — If the tears aback of the bravado Could force their way and let you know — Brothers, the souls of us all would chime, If we had the time! A HIGHER VIEW. O OME one says: "Hopes are woven sunbeams and a ^^ shadow annihilates them." Sadly true, unless we are capable always of lifting our point of view just a little above the passing cloud that casts the shadow. Up there — and it is not far — are eternal sunbeams. 552 FATHER'S SIDE. HOME MAKING. "NT O FATHER has ever a nearer and dearer task than ^ ^ that of making and sustaining a home. Wealth, name, fame, all sink into utter insignificance as a legacy to the children when compared with the sustaining force of endearing memories. First of all, and above all, let the children be assured of a home-life that is honest, true and loving, and permeated with wide and noble senti- ments. The memories of childhood and youth cling to the mind through to the end, and color every motive and act of a long life. So let the home be a home Indeed. Home! Oh, how sweet is that word ! What beautiful and tender as- sociations cluster thick around it; compared with it, house, mansion, palace are cold, heartless terms. But ihome! that word quickens the pulse, warms the heart, stirs the soul to its depths, makes age feel young again, rouses apathy into energy, sustains the sailor in his mid- night watch, inspires the soldier with courage on the field of battle, and imparts patient endurance to the worn-down sons of toil. The thought of Home has proved a seven- fold shield to virtue; its very name has a spell to call FATHER'S SIDE. 553 back the wanderer from the paths of vice ; and far away, where myrtles bloom, and palm trees wave, and the ocean sleeps upon coral strands, to the exile's fond fancy it clothes the naked rock, or stormy shore, or barren moor, or wild Highland mountain with charms he weeps to think of, and longs once more to see. HOME DEFINED. T T OME'S not merely four square walls, -*• •*■ Though with pictures hung and gilded: Home is where affection calls. Filled with shrines the heart hath builded! Home! go watch the faithful dove, SaiHng'neath the heaven above us; Home is where there's one to love! Home is where there's one to love us! Home's not merely roof and room. It needs something to endear it; Home is where the heart can bloom. Where there's some kind lip to cheer it! What is home with none to meet. None to welcome, none to greet us? Home is sweet — and only sweet — When there's one we love to meet us ! 554 FATHER'S SIDE. "IS OO GOD'S CHILD?" A WEE and gentle lad is he, ^'*- And, leaning lightly 'gainst my knee, He lifts his dear and quest'ning eyes — As dark and blue as summer skies — And asks, in lisping accents mild: "Say, papa, dear, is oo God's child?'* I lift my lad up to my breast And lay his golden head at rest, But still his eyes — like mignonette Or pansies which the dew has wet — Look up at me, and once again The lisping voice doth sound refrain And ask once more, in accents mild: "Say, papa, dear, is oo God's child?" I cannot speak — I who have been For years a worldling, and have seen So much to kill my faith in creeds, So much to tell of human needs Forgotten in God's great decree, Or so it often seems to me — And low I bend, my lips to lay FATHER'S SIDE. 555 Against my child's, and thus delay The answer which I cannot make, Not even for my lad's dear sake; And then — I count his dimpled toes. Tell how "this pig to market goes" — And he at last with sleep goes home, And in the land of Nod does roam While I — gaze on the Undefiled And hear again, "Is 00 God's child?" Ah ! how it all comes back to me, My little child upon my knee; And yet I know they oft have said, "He lies out yonder 'mong the dead." And he will greet no more my view — My lad who lives beyond the blue — But I, who loved him much, do know That he hath done his work below, Restored the faith long since grown dim And safely led me back to him. And if he could come back today, And ask me, in his lisping way, I would not feel the old time pain Of unbelief, but 'gainst my heart would press My little child and whisper "Yes." 556 FATHER'S SIDE, O THE GREATEST WORD. RDER, said the law court; Knowledge, said the school; Truth, said the wise man; Pleasure, said the fool; Love, said the maiden; Beauty, said the page; Freedom, said the dreamer; Home, said the sage; Fame, said the soldier; Equity, the seer; — Spake my heart full sadly, 'The answer is not here." Then within my bosom Softly this I heard: 'Each heart holds the secret, Kindness is the word.'* As brother unto brother Kindness .ever hold; Other words bear riches, But "Kindness" is pure gold. FATHER'S SIDE. 557 ONLY A TRAMP. nPHE newspaper said: "The morning train struck an -'• unknown tramp near the creek, kilHng him instantly. The man had on a striped shirt, faded trousers, heavy boots, blue overalls, brown blouse and a gray vest. In his hand he carried a red handkerchief, in which was some bread and a bunch of grapes. In his pocket was a letter addressed, 'Dear Father,' and signed 'Your Son,' but with neither name nor address." Only a tramp. Out in the wide world alone. All his earthly possessions tied up in a handkerchief. Who is he? No one knows. But perhaps his heart was warm — a kind, manly heart that beat within the ragged vest. How those harsh words must pierce the heart of the poor old mother, if she reads them. Doubtless when he was a babe, with his chubby little legs, and his dimpled toes, and his small, laughing mouth, and all the physical charms of babyhood, no one would have looked into the future and said: "He isn't worth raising; he'll be only a tramp." No, not one. And the proud young mother, as 558 FATHER'S SIDE. she gazed on her darling baby boy, would she think for a moment that when he grew up into a great strong man he would be "only a tramp?" Surely not. "In his pocket was a letter." "Dear Father," it be- gan. What a wealth of love in those two simple words, "dear father!" Ah, but he loved the old father, the dear father. With his lot in life but that of a wanderer upon the face of the earth, he remembered the "dear father." How, perhaps, he pictured home in his mind. How he saw his mother and father seated at table in the cottage, where he had left them years before. How the poor fellow looked out into the darkness, over miles and miles of green, fertile fields, and saw in the far-away home one man in all the world, whom he could call friend. His father; nay, more, his "dear father." Oh, if the poor tramp's heart could but express the love and reverence concealed in those words. And the letter was signed "Your Son." I think I can read the meaning of those words. They spoke to the dear father as a child of God crying aloud to the heavenly parent. "Your son!" Yes, your son, not ashamed to lift up his face and proclaim to the world that, notwithstand- ing his rags and his tatters, he was "your son." Ah, but there are other fathers who look out over the wide world FATHER'S SIDE. 559 in the twilight of peace and happiness. They have, per- haps a son somewhere in an unknown part of the world. "Your son." Yes, "dear father," perhaps even now he is hungry and thirsty. Nay, more; even now the words "dear father" dinging to his closed hps. Maybe "your son" is "only a tramp.'' God knows. Call back your wayward boy, "dear father." Your son has a manly heart. He loves his father, you love your son. May the sweet love of heaven hold you closer. "Dear father," "your son" is "only a tramp," but you love your darling boy, and he loves your gray hair and wrinkled brow. "Dear fa- ther," keep "your son'' by your side, cling to him; and, son, stay by your father. Leave the wide world to itself. There is enough vice and misery there. Even if you are "only a tramp," remain at home — home, the garden spot of your life-time. Stay by your "dear father," and bring sunshine and gladness to him in his declining years. Your life will be the better for it. Your bread and cheese will taste all the sweeter. Your heart will be softer, your hands cleaner, your soul purer. You are "only a tramp," but God bless you. 56o FATHER'S SWE, A MOTHER'S SONG. jy yi ANY years ago a company of Indians were surprised ^^ '^ and taken on the Western frontier. Among them were a number of stolen children who had been with the savages for years. Word was sent throughout the region, inviting all who had lost children to come and see if among these young captives they could recognize their own. A long way off was a woman whose husband had been slain, and her two children, a boy and a girl, carried away by the wild red men some years before. With mingled hope and fear she came; with throbbing heart she ap- proached the group; they were strange to her. She came nearer, and with eyes filled with mother-love she peered into their faces, one after another, but there was nothing in any that she could claim; nor was there any- thing in her to light up their cold faces. With the dull pain of despair at her heart, she was turn- ing away, when she paused, choked back the tears, and in soft, clear notes, began a simple plaintive song, the favor- ite song she used to sing her little ones of Jesus and of Heaven in the still evening time. Not one verse was FATHER'S SIDE. 561 completed before a boy and girl sprang from the group, exclaiming "Mamma! Mamma!" and she folded her lost ones to her bosom. So lives the memories and the influence of home in the hearts of the children. And no father who reads these lines will forget the deep truth conveyed, nor fail to have the minds of his own loved ones carry out into life many memories that are beautiful, tender and true. 562 FATHER'S SIDE. A FATHER TO HIS DAUGHTER. (At 20 years of age.) Some day, When others braid your thick brown hair And drape your form in silk and lace, When others call you "dear" and "fair," And hold your hands and kiss your face You'll not forget that far above All others is a father's love. Some day, When you must feel love's heavy loss. You will remember other years When I too bent beneath the cross. And mix my memory with thy tears, In such dark hours be not afraid; Within their shadows I have prayed. Some day, A flower, a song, a word may be A link between us strong and sweet; Ah, then, dear child, remember me ! And let your heart to "father" beat. My love is with you everywhere. You cannot pass beyond my prayer. FATHER'S SIDE. 563 OFF THE JURY. ^WillM. Carleton. jV yi Y business on the Jury's done — ^the quibblin' all is '^ through; IVe watched the lawyers, right and left, and give my ver- dict true ; I stuck so long unto my chair, I thought I would grow in ; And if I do not know myself, they'll get me there again. But now the court's adjourned for good, and I have got my pay; I'm loose at last, and, thank the Lord, I'm goin' home to-day. I've somehow felt uneasy-like, since first day I come down ; It is an awkward game to play the gentleman in town; I have no doubt my wife looked out, as well as any one — As well as any woman could — ^to see that things were done; For though Melinda, when I'm there, won't set her foot out doors. She's very careful, when I'm gone, to tend to all the chores. 564 FATHER'S SIDE. My little boy — I'll give 'em leave to match him, if they can; It's fun to see him strut about and try to be a man! The gamest, cheeriest little chap you'd ever want to see ! And then they laugh because I think the child resembles me. My little girl — I can't contrive how it should happen thus — That God could pick that sweet bouquet and fling it down to us! My wife, she says that han'some face will some day make a stir; And then I laugh because she thinks the child resembles her. If there's a heaven upon earth, a fellow knows it when He's been away from home a week, and then gets back again. If there's a heaven above the earth, then often, I'll be bound. Some homesick fellow meets his folks, and hugs them all around. But let my creed be right or wrong, or be it as it may, My heaven is just ahead of me — I'm goin' home to-day. FATHER'S SIDE. 565 FATHER AND DAUGHTER. T^ HERE are a few things pleasanter to look upon than -'• a father and daughter together when wrapped in mutual love and tenderness. In what the special charm of the sight consists it would not be easy at^once to say. Possibly in the pathos of the thought of the greater strength of the father bent to shield this slight creature, in the thought of his absorption in a thing so fragile, and in the counterpart to this, of the support that the slight creature yields to him, and in the utterly disinterested character of the whole. As years advance and the father grows gray and bent the pathos is more decided, for it shows the slight creature called upon for all reserves of strength and devotion, and recognizes in the sight a rev- elation of the moral balances of the universe. The love between a father and a daughter is of a pe- culiar sort, so much mutual tenderness enters into it, that tenderness which is an acknowledgment of weakness, a desire to shield, a yearning after the happiness each of the other, far more than each for self. Certainly to both father and daughter their love is a source of perpetual comfort, they admire each other so infinitely; to her he S66 FATHER'S SIDE. is almost a demigod, first and greatest and best among men; to him she is the perfection of womankind, in her are all the graces of the mother who bore her, and his own identity besides; the joy of adoration is given to both of them aUke. THE HOME OF HIS CHILDHOOD. T T E knows that the paleness still burns on his cheek, ■*• ^ He feels that the fever still burns on his brow, And what in his thought, in his dream, does he seek 'Far, far o'er the ocean that circles him now? 'Tis the home of his childhood, the first and the best! O, why have you hurried him over the wave, That the hand of the stranger may tend on his rest. That the foot of the stranger may tread on his grave? Here the sun may be brighter the heaven more blue, But, oh! to his eyes they are joyless and dim; Here the flowers may be richer of perfume and hue — They are not so fair, nor so fragrant to him; 'Tis the home of his childhood ! oh, bear him again To the play-haunted lawn, to the love-lighted room, That his mother may watch by his pillow of pain. That his father may whisper a prayer o'er his tomb! FATHER'S SIDE. 567 HOME. A CHILD, speaking to a friend of his home, was asked: " Where is your home? " Looking up with loving eyes at his mother, he replied, " Where mother is," Home! " What a hallowed name! How full of enchantment and how dear to the heart! Home is the magic circle within which the weary spirit finds refuge ; it is the sacred asylum to which the care-worn heart retreats to find rest from the toils and cares of life. Home! That name touches every fiber of our soul. Nothing but death can break its spell. " And, as dear as home can be, is the mother that presided over it, and that we loved. Long years may have flown since we saw that home, and since the dearest of all earthly friends has slept the long and silent sleep of death ; but that home and that mother will never cease to awaken the sweetest recollections of our lives. " Home, Sweet Home!" Some years ago twenty thousand people gathered in the old Castle Garden, New York, to hear Jenny S68 FATHER'S SIDE. Lind sing, as no other songstress ever had sung, the sublime compositions of Beethoven, Handel, etc. At length, the Swedish nightingale thought of her home, paused and seemed to fold her wings for a highM* flight. She began, with deep emotion, to pour forth, " Home, Sweet Home." The audience could not stand it. An uproar of applause stopped the music. Tears gushed from the eyes of that vast multitude like rain. After a moment, the song came again, seemingly as from heaven — almost angelic, " Home, Sweet Home!" That was the word that bound, as with a spell, twenty thousand souls, and Howard Payne triumphed over the great masters of song. ^ Home of our childhood! We are folded again in mother's arms. She is again leaning over us, and bathing our forehead and cooling our fevered brow. But, alas, that mother is no longer in that home. She has gone to live with the angels. But there is another home, a home beyond the stars; and mother has gone to live " Where they know not the sorrows of time. " "Up to that world of light, Take us, dear Savior; FATHER'S SIDE. 569 May we all there unite, Happy forever. Where kindred spirits dwell, There may our music swell, And time our joys dispel — Never — no, never!" Heaven is the home that awaits us beyond the grave. At the best estate, we are only pilgrims here. Heaven is our eternal home. Death will never knock at the door of that mansion. ** Parents rejoice very much when, on Christmas day, or on Thanksgiving day, they have their children at home; but there is almost always a son or a daughter absent from the country, or from the world." But, oh! how glad we will be when we are all at home, all safe at home. Once there, let earthly sorrows howl like storms, and swell like seas. Home ! Let thrones decay and em- pires wither. Home ! Let the world die in earth- quake struggles, and be buried amid the procession of planets and dirge of spheres. Home I Let everlasting ages roll in irresistible sweep. Home ! No sorrow, no crying, no death, but home, sweet home. Beautiful 570 FATHER'S SIDE. home! Everlasting home! Home with each other! Home with the angels! Home with God! Home with mother! Home! Home!! Adieu, reader. Here we lay down our pen, but here we do not end our meditations. The heart ever listens to the UNWRITTEN SONGS. npHERE are songs that are written and songs that are sung. That thrill us with truth, like a prayer. But sweeter than these are the songs that no tongue Has ever been known to declare. There's a life that we live, that never appears To the world or the friend at our side, There's a song in the silence, a song that cheers The hope that is broken, the courage that's tried. The fibers of being are swept and are stirred By the touch of a masterful hand. Whilst the heart's own voice, in tenderest word, Sings us a song we all understand. THE END. LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 013 978 496 f