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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 lisp

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

now.

Uphold thy mother; close to her warm heart

She carried, fed thee, lull'd thee to thy

rest;

Then taught thy tottering limbs their un

tried 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

gave; Past are her hopes of youth, her harvest

prime Of joy on earth ; her friends are in the grave;

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

pang To that fond bosom, where thou art en

shrined In love unutterable, more than fang Of venom'd serpent. Wound not that strong

trust 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

ploy 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

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“ 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
pray

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

BIRTH

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")

ONLY ONE

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"

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

Lulld 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 wild

cherry and cat-brier under them.

I saw the rich ladies in full dress at the

soiree, I heard what the singers were singing so

long, 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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