Life and Literature Part 102

MOTHER.

Can'st thou, mother, for a moment think That we, thy children, when old age shall shed Its blanching honors on thy weary head, Could from our best of duties ever shrink?

Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink, Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day To pine in solitude thy life away, Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink.

Banish the thought!--where'er our steps may roam, O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee, And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home; While duty bids us all thy griefs a.s.suage And smoothe the pillow of thy sinking age.

--_Henry Kirke White._

1410

MY MOTHER.

My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?

I heard the bells tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hea.r.s.e that bore thee slow away; And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!

Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learned at last submission to my lot: But though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

--_Cowper._

1411

An ounce of mother is worth more than a pound of clergy.

--_Spanish Proverb._

1412

A MOTHER'S EXAMPLE.

It was a judicious resolution of a father, as well as a most pleasing compliment to his wife, when, on being asked by a friend what he intended to do with his girls, he replied: "I intend to apprentice them to their mother, that they may learn the art of improving time, and be fitted to become wives, mothers, heads of families, and useful members of society." Equally just, but very different, was the remark of an unhappy husband--his wife was vain and thoughtless--"It is hard to say, but if my girls are to have a chance of growing up good for anything, they must be sent out of the way of their mother's example."

1413

A MOTHER'S SORROWS.

My son! my son! I cannot speak the rest-- Ye who have sons can only know my fondness!

Ye who have lost them, or who fear to lose, Can only know my pangs! none else can guess them; A mother's sorrows cannot be conceived But by a mother!

1414

Pomponius Atticus, who p.r.o.nounced a funeral oration on the death of his mother, protested that though he had resided with her sixty-seven years, he was never once reconciled to her; "because," said he, "there never happened the least discord between us, and consequently there was no need of reconciliation."

1415

THE MOTHER'S HOPE.

Is there, when the winds are singing In the happy summer time-- When the raptured air is ringing With earth's music heavenward springing, Forest chirp and village chime-- Is there, of the sounds that float Unsighingly, a single note Half so sweet, and clear, and wild, As the laughter of a child?

--_Laman Blanchard._

1416

_A True Estimate of a Mother._--To a child, there is no velvet so soft as a mother's lap, no rose so lovely as her smile, no path so flowery as that imprinted with her footsteps.

1417

TURF FROM MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.

The following simple, beautiful lines contain an unadorned statement of a fact in the experience of a friend, who is fond of wandering in the Scotch highland glens:

As I came wandering down Glen Spean, Where the braes are green and gra.s.sy, With my light step I overtook A weary-footed la.s.sie.

She had one bundle on her back, Another in her hand, And she walked as one who was full loath To travel from the land.

Quoth I, "my bonnie la.s.s!"--for she Had hair of flowing gold, And dark brown eyes, and dainty limbs, Right pleasant to behold--

"My bonnie la.s.s, what aileth thee, On this bright summer day, To travel sad and shoeless thus Upon the stony way?

"I'm fresh and strong, and stoutly shod, And thou art burdened so; March lightly now and let me bear The bundles as we go."

"No, no!" she said, "that canna be, What's mine is mine to bear, Of good or ill, as G.o.d may will, I take my portioned share."

"But you have two and I have none; One burden give to me; I'll take _that_ bundle from thy back That heavier seems to be."

"No, no!" she said; "_this_, if you will, _That_ holds--no hand but mine May bear its weight from dear Glen Spean 'Cross the Atlantic brine!"

"Well, well! but tell me what may be Within that precious load Which thou dost bear with such fine care Along the dusty road?

"Is it some present rare From friend in parting hour; Perhaps, as prudent maidens wont, Thou tak'st with thee thy dower?"

She drooped her head, and with her hand She gave a mournful wave; "Oh, do not jest, dear sir--it is Turf from my mother's grave!"

I spoke no word; we sat and wept By the road-side together: No purer dew on that bright day Was dropt upon the heather.

--_John Stuart Black._

1418

When we are sick, where can we turn for succor, When we are wretched where can we complain?

And when the world looks cold and surly on us Where can we go to meet a warmer eye With such sure confidence as to a mother?