MY MOTHER'S BIBLE

This book is all that's left me now,

Tears will unbidden start, With faltering lip and throbbing brow

I press it to my heart. For many generations past,

Here is our family tree; My mother's hands this Bible clasped,

She, dying, gave it me.

Ah! well do I remember those

Whose names these records bear; Who round the hearthstone used to

close, After the evening prayer, And speak of what these pages said

In tones my heart would thrill! Though they are with the silent dead,

Here are they living still!

My father read this holy book

To brothers, sisters, dear; How calm was my poor mother's look,

Who loved God's word to hear! Her angel face, - I see it yet!

What thronging memories come! Again that little group is met

Within the halls of home!

Thou truest friend man ever knew,

Thy constancy I've tried ;
When all were false, I found thee true,

My counselor and guide.
The mines of earth no treasures give

That could this volume buy;
In teaching me the way to live,
It taught me how to die!

George Pope Morris

TWO SONS

I HAVE two sons, wife

Two and yet the same;
One his wild way runs, wife,

Bringing us to shame.
The one is bearded, sunburnt, grim, and

fights across the sea, The other is a little child who sits upon your

knee.

a

One is fierce and cold, wife,

As the wayward deep;
Him no arms could hold, wife,

Him no breast could keep.
He has tried our hearts for many a year, not

a

One may fall in fight, wife,

Is he not our son ?
Pray with all your might, wife,

For the wayward one;
Pray for the dark, rough soldier, who fights

across the sea, Because you love the little shade who smiles

upon your knee.

One across the foam, wife,

As I speak may fall;
But this one at home, wife,

Cannot die at all.
They both are only one; and how thankful

should we be, We cannot lose the darling son who sits upon

your knee!

Robert Buchanan

MOTHER TO SON

BEFORE I knew the love of man
The lovely dream of you began.
When I said, “ Jesus meek and mild,”
My Jesus was a little child.
I nursed the kitten on my knee,
And nursed

Your hands were beating at my breast,
And gave my womanhood no rest,
Your little soul called each to each,
And laid bright heaven in our reach.
My body fed your body, son,
But birth 's a swift thing, swiftly done,
Compared to one-and-twenty years
Of feeding you with spirit's tears.
I could not make your mind and soul,
But my glad hands have kept you whole,
And tears have kept God's pastures green,
And washed the temple sweet and clean.
Think you that I have lived in vain
These years of wonder, joy, and pain?
The years when Jesus meek and mild
Was my beloved little child!
And when the first shy touch of things
Waked in my heart a thousand springs,
And bade me open childhood's gate
And give my woman's hand to fate!
The moment when your groping hands
Bound me to life with ruthless bands,
When all my living became a prayer,
And all my days built up a stair
For your young feet that trod behind,
That you an aspiring way should find !
Think you that life can give you pain,
Which does not stab in me again?
Think

you that life can give you pleasure Which is not my undying treasure ?

Think you that life can give you shame
Which does not make my pride go lame?

?
And you can do no evil thing
Which sears not me with poisoned sting.
Because of all that I have done,
Remember me in life, O son!
Keep that proud body fine and fair,
My love is monumented there.
For
my

love make no woman weep,
For my love hold no woman cheap,
And see you give no woman scorn
For that dark night when you were born.

Beloved, all my years belong
To you, go thread them for a song.

Irene Rutherford McLeod

ONE MOTHER

MARY!

I'm quite alone in all the world, Into such bright sharp pain of anguish

hurled I cannot pray wise comfortable things; Death's plunged me deep in hell, and given

me wings For terrible strange vastnesses; no hand In all this empty spirit-driven space; I stand Alone, and whimpering in my soul. I plod Among wild stars, and hide my face from

God.