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Her babe was in her arms, the agony
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,
Ever through thy remaining days to be
George Bethune ·
NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP
"Now I lay me down to sleep:
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,"
Many years since then have fled;
Oh! could the faith of childhood's days
That lies around a wasted life,
Oh! then at night in prayer I'd bend,
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,
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;
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.
"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
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.