TO A YOUNG CHILD

As doth his heart who travels far from home Leap up whenever he by chance doth see One from his mother-country lately come, Friend from my home — thus do I welcome

thee. Thou art so late arrived that I the tale Of thy high lineage on thy brow can trace, And almost feel the breath of that soft gale That wafted thee unto this desert place, And half can hear those ravishing sounds

that flowed From out Heaven's gate when it was oped

for thee, That thou awhile mightst leave thy bright

abode Amid these lone and desolate tracks to be A homesick, weary wanderer, and then Return unto thy native land again.

Eliza Scudder

THE VIRGIN

MOTHER! whose virgin bosom was uncrost
With the least shade of thought to sin allied ;
Woman! above all women glorified,
Our tainted nature's solitary boast;
Purer than foam on central ocean tost;

Brighter than eastern skies at daybreak

strewn With fancied roses, than the unblemished

moon

Before her wane begins on heaven's blue

coast; Thy image falls to earth. Yet some, I ween, Not unforgiven the suppliant knee might

bend, As to a visible Power, in which did blend All that was mixed and reconciled in Thee Of mother's love with maiden purity, Of high with low, celestial with terrene!

William Wordsworth

THANKSGIVING AFTER

CHILDBIRTH

WOMAN! the Power who left his throne on

high, And deigned to wear the robe of flesh we

wear, The Power that thro' the straits of Infancy Did pass dependent on maternal care, His own humanity with Thee will share, Pleased with the thanks that in his People's

eye Thou offerest up for safe Delivery From Childbirth's perilous throes. And

Of thy fond hopes hereafter walk inclined
To courses fit to make a mother rue
That ever he was born, a glance of mind
Cast
upon

this observance may renew A better will; and, in the imagined view Of thee thus kneeling, safety he may find.

William Wordsworth

MY MOTHER

THERE was a gather'd stillness in the room : Only the breathing of the great sea rose From far off, aiding that profound repose, With regular pulse and pause within the

gloom Of twilight, as if some impending doom Was now approaching;—I sat moveless there, Watching with tears and thoughts that were

like prayer,

Till the hour struck, — the thread dropp'd

from the loom; And the Bark pass'd in which freed souls

are borne. The dear still’d face lay there; that sound

forlorn Continued; I rose not, but long sat by: And now my heart oft hears that sad seashore, When she is in the far-off land, and I Wait the dark sail returning yet once more.

William Bell Scott

EVENING

AGE cannot wither her whom not

gray

hairs Nor furrowed cheeks bave made the thrall

of Time; For Spring lies hidden under Winter's rime, And violets know the victory is theirs. Even so the corn of Egypt, unawares, Proud Nilus shelters with engulfing slime; So Etna's hardening crust a more sublime Volley of pent-up fires at last prepares. O face yet fair, if paler, and serene With sense of duty done without complaint! O venerable crown!- a living green, Strength to the weak, and courage to the

faintThy bleaching locks, thy wrinkles, have but

been Fresh beads upon the rosary of a saint!

Wendell Phillips Garrison

TO MY FIRST LOVE, MY MOTHER

my tome

SONNETS are full of love, and this

Has many sonnets : so here now shall be

One sonnet more, a love sonnet, from me To her whose heart is my heart's quiet home, To my first Love, my Mother, on whose knee

I learnt love-lore that is not troublesome;

Whose service is my special dignity, And she my lodestar while I go

and come.

And so because you love me, and because
I love you, Mother, I have woven a

wreath
Of rhymes wherewith to crown your

honored name: In

you not fourscore years can dim the

flame Of love, whose blessed glow transcends the

laws Of time and change and mortal life and death.

Christina G. Rossetti