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Her ample gown is of cream-hued linen, Her grandsons raised the flax, and her grand

daughters 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


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 restAnd, by all else forsaken or distress'dClaim, in one heart, their sanctuary and

shrineAs 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


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


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


Robert Haven Schauffler

I see your


SHE was as good as goodness is,
Her acts and all her words were kind,
And high above all memories
I hold the beauty of her mind.

Frederic Hentz Adams


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