Without a mother's tender care,
The little thing must die,
Its chubby hands too feeble are
One service to supply;

And not a tittle does it know

What kind of world 't is come into.

The lambs sport gayly on the grass
When scarcely born a day;
The foal, beside its mother ass,
Trots frolicksome away,
No other creature, tame or wild,
Is half so helpless as a child.

To nurse the Dolly, gayly drest,
And stroke its flaxen hair,
Or ring the coral at its waist,
With silver bells so fair,
Is all the little creature can,
That is so soon to be a man.

Full many a summer's sun must glow
And lighten up the skies,
Before its tender limbs can grow

To anything of size;

And all the while the mother's eye

Must every little want supply.

Then surely, when each little limb
Shall grow to healthy size,

And youth and manhood strengthen him
For toil and enterprise,

His mother's kindness is a debt,

He never, never will forget.

Jane Taylor

GOOD-NIGHT

LITTLE baby, lay your head
On your pretty cradle-bed;
Shut your eye-peeps now the day
And the light are gone away;
All the clothes are tucked in tight;
Little baby dear, good-night.

Yes, my darling, well I know
How the bitter wind doth blow;
And the winter's snow and rain
Patter on the window-pane:
But they cannot come in here,
To my little baby dear;

For the window shutteth fast,
Till the stormy night is past;
And the curtains warm are spread
Round about her cradle bed:
So till morning shineth bright
Little baby dear, good-night.

Jane Taylor

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR

I 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 bedew'd it with tears, and embalm'd it
with sighs;

"T is bound by a thousand bands to my heart; Not a tie will break, not a link will start.

Would ye learn the spell?-a mother sat there,

And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

In childhood's hour I linger'd near
The hallow'd seat with listening ear;

And 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 watch'd her many a day,
When her eye grew dim, and her locks were

gray;

And I almost worshipp'd her when she

smiled,

And turn'd from her Bible to bless her child.

Years roll'd on, but the last one sped-
My idol was shatter'd, my earth-star fled;
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.

"Tis past! 't is past! but I gaze on it now With quivering breath and throbbing brow: 'Twas there she nursed me, 't was there she died;

And memory flows with lava tide.

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,

While the scalding drops start down my cheek;

But I love, I love it! and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

Eliza Cook