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Her babe was in her arms, the agony
Was all forgot, for bliss of loving thee.

Be gentle to thy mother; long she bore Thine infant fretfulness and silly youth; Nor rudely scorn the faithful voice that o'er Thy cradle pray'd, and taught thy lispings truth.

Yes, she is old; yet on thine adult brow She looks, and claims thee as her child e'en


Uphold thy mother; close to her warm heart She carried, fed thee, lull'd thee to thy


Then taught thy tottering limbs their untried art,

Exulting in the fledging from her nest; And now her steps are feeble, by her stay, Whose strength was thine in thy most feeble day.

Cherish thy mother; brief perchance the time

May be that she will claim the care she


Past are her hopes of youth, her harvest prime

Of joy on earth; her friends are in the


But for her children, she could lay her head Gladly to rest among her precious dead.

Be tender with thy mother; words unkind, Or light neglect from thee, will give a


To that fond bosom, where thou art enshrined

In love unutterable, more than fang

Of venom'd serpent. Wound not that strong


As thou wouldst hope for peace when she is dust.

O mother mine! God grant I ne'er forget,
Whatever be my grief, or what my joy,
The unmeasured, inextinguishable debt
I owe thy love; but make my sweet em-

Ever through thy remaining days to be
To thee as faithful, as thou wert to me.

George Bethune ·


"Now I lay me down to sleep:

I pray the Lord my soul to keep,"
Was my childhood's early prayer
Taught by my mother's love and care.

Many years since then have fled;
Mother slumbers with the dead;
Yet methinks I see her now,
With love-lit eyes and holy brow,
As, kneeling by her side to pray,
She gently taught me how to say,
"Now I lay me down to sleep:
I pray the Lord my soul to keep."

Oh! could the faith of childhood's days
Oh! could its little hymns of praise,
Oh! could its simple, joyous trust
Be recreated from the dust

That lies around a wasted life,
The fruit of many a bitter strife!

Oh! then at night in prayer I'd bend,
And call my God, my Father, Friend,
And with childlike faith once more


The prayer my mother taught of yore,"Now I lay me down to sleep:

I pray the Lord my soul to keep."

Eugene Henry Pullen


JUST when each bud was big with bloom,
And as prophetic of perfume,
When spring, with her bright horoscope,
Was sweet as an unuttered hope;

Just when the last star flickered out,

And twilight, like a soul in doubt, Hovered between the dark and dawn, And day lay waiting to be born;

Just when the gray and dewy air
Grew sacred as an unvoiced prayer,
And somewhere through the dusk she heard
The stirring of a nested bird, —

Four angels glorified the place:

Wan Pain unveiled her awful face;

Joy, soaring, sang; Love, brooding, smiled;
Peace laid upon her breast a child.
Annie R. Stillman ("Grace Raymond")


HUNDREDS of stars in the pretty sky; Hundreds of shells on the shore together;

Hundreds of birds that go singing by ; Hundreds of bees in the sunny weather.

Hundreds of dewdrops to greet the dawn; Hundreds of lambs in the purple clover; Hundreds of butterflies on the lawn;

But only one mother the wide world over.

George Cooper


THE old face of the mother of many children, Whist! I am fully content.

Lull'd and late is the smoke of the First-day morning,

It hangs low over the rows of trees by the fences,

It hangs thin by the sassafras and wildcherry and cat-brier under them.

I saw the rich ladies in full dress at the soiree,

I heard what the singers were singing so


Heard who sprang in crimson youth from the white froth and the Water-blue.

Behold a woman!

She looks out from her Quaker cap, her face is clearer and more beautiful than the sky.

She sits in an armchair under the shaded porch of the farmhouse,

The sun just shines on her old white head.

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