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 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. 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 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. Her ample gown is of cream-hued linen, Her grandsons raised the flax, and her granddaughters spun it with the distaff and the wheel. The melodious character of the earth, The finish beyond which philosophy cannot go and does not wish to go, The justified mother of men. Walt Whitman A MOTHER AH! bless'd are they for whom, 'mid all their pains, That faithful and unalter'd love remains; Who, Life wreck'd round them-hunted from their rest And, by all else forsaken or distress'd— Claim, in one heart, their sanctuary and shrine As I, my Mother, claim'd my place in thine! Oft, since that hour, in sadness I retrace My childhood's vision of thy calm sweet face; Oft see thy form, its mournful beauty shrouded In thy black weeds, and coif of widow's woe; Thy dark expressive eyes all dim and clouded By that deep wretchedness the lonely know: Stifling thy grief, to hear some weary task, Conn'd by unwilling lips, with listless air; Hoarding thy means, lest future need might ask More than the widow's pittance then could spare. Hidden, forgotten by the great and gay, Enduring sorrow, not by fits and starts, But the long self-denial, day by day, Alone amidst thy brood of careless hearts! Striving to guide, to teach, or to restrain, The young rebellious spirits crowding round, Who saw not, knew not, felt not for thy pain, And could not comfort-yet had power to wound! Ah! how my selfish heart, which since hath grown Familiar with deep trials of its own, With riper judgment looking to the past, Regrets the careless days that flew so fast, Stamps with remorse each wasted hour of time, And darkens every folly into crime! Caroline E. S. Norton TO MY MOTHER I SEE your face as on that calmer day When from my infant eyes it passed away Beyond these petty cares and questionings Beyond this sphere of sordid human things The trampled field of time's capricious play. Bright with more mother-love than tongue can say, Stern with the sense of foes in strong array, Yet hopeful, with no hopefulness earth brings I see your face. O gracious guarder from the primrose way, O loving guide when wayward feet would stray, O inspiration sweet when the heart sings, O patient ministrant to sufferings, Down the long road, madonna mia, may I see your face. Robert Haven Schauffler |