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THE wind blew wide the casement, and within

It was the loveliest picture! - a sweet child Lay in its mother's arms, and drew its life, In pauses, from the fountain, the white


Part shaded by loose tresses, soft and dark, Concealing, but still showing, the fair realm Of so much rapture, as green shadowing


With beauty shroud the brooklet. The red lips

Were parted, and the cheek upon the breast Lay close, and, like the young leaf of the flower,

Wore the same color, rich and warm and fresh:

And such alone are beautiful. Its eye,

A full blue gem, most exquisitely set, Looked archly on its world, the little


As if it knew even then that such a wreath Were not for all; and with its playful hands It drew aside the robe that hid its realm, And peeped and laughed aloud, and so it laid

Its head on the shrine of such pure joys,

And, laughing, slept. And while it slept, the


Of the sweet mother fell upon its cheek, Tears such as fall from April skies, and bring

The sunlight after. They were tears of joy; And the true heart of that young mother then

Grew lighter, and she sang unconsciously The silliest ballad-song that ever yet Subdued the nursery's voices, and brought


To fold her sabbath wings above its couch. William Gilmore Simms


WITHIN the crib that stands beside my bed A little form in sweet abandon lies

And as I bend above with misty eyes I know how Mary's heart was comforted.

O world of Mothers! blest are we who know The ecstasy the deep God-given thrill

That Mary felt when all the earth was


In the Judean starlight long ago!

Anne P. L. Field


My mother bore me in the southern wild, And I am black, but O, my soul is white! White as an angel is the English child,

But I am black, as if bereaved of light.

My mother taught me underneath a tree, And, sitting down before the heat of day, She took me on her lap and kissèd me,

And, pointing to the East, began to say:

"Look at the rising sun; there God does live, And gives His light, and gives His heat


And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive

Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.

"And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love;

And these black bodies and this sunburnt face Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

“For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear,

The cloud will vanish, when we shall hear

His voice,

Saying 'Come out from the grove, my love

and care,

And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.""

Thus did my mother say, and kissèd me,

And thus I say to little English boy.

When I from black and he from white cloud


And round the tent of God like lambs we


I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear To lean in joy upon our Father's knee; And then I'll stand and stroke his silver


And be like him, and he will then love me. William Blake


(Lines written at Burmah in joy for a first-born)
ERE last year's morn had left the sky,
A birdling sought my Indian nest;
And folded, oh, so lovingly,

Her tiny wings upon my breast.

From morn till evening's purple tinge,
In winsome helplessness she lies;
Two rosy leaves with a silken fringe,
Shut softly on her starry eyes.

There's not in Ind a lovelier bird;
Broad earth owns not a happier nest;
O God, thou hast a fountain stirred,
Whose waters never more shall rest.

This beautiful, mysterious thing,
This seeming visitant from heaven,
This bird with the immortal wing,
To me, to me, thy hand has given.

The pulse first caught its tiny stroke,
The blood its crimson hue, from mine; -
This life which I have dared invoke,
Henceforth, is parallel with thine.

A silent awe is in my room,

I tremble with delicious fear;
The future, with its light and gloom,
Time and eternity are here.

Doubts, hopes, in eager tumult rise,
Hear, O my God, one earnest prayer:
Room for my bird in Paradise,

And give her angel-plumage there.

Emily C. Judson


CHILDREN are what the mothers are.
No fondest father's fondest care

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