Where is your ancient courage ? You were us'd
To say, extremity was the trier of spirits;
That common chances common men could bear; Ah! bless'd are they for whom, 'mid all their

I miss thee, my mother, when young health has Peace to my troubled spirit, and new power

I ve por'd o'er many a yellow page
Of ancient wisdom, and have won,
Perchance, a scholar's name - but sage
Or bard have never taught thy son
Lessons so dear, so fraught with holy truth,
As those his mother's faith shed on his youth.
George W. Bethune.

A mother's love-how sweet the name!

What is a mother's love?

— A noble, pure, and tender flame,

Enkindled from above,

To bless a heart of earthly mould;

The warmest love that can grow cold;

This is a mother's love.

James Montgomery.
There are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes,
For her new-born babe beside her lies;
Oh, heaven of bliss! when the heart o'erflows
With the rapture a mother only knows!

Henry Ware, Jr. Our little ones inquire of me, where is their mother gone?

What answer can I make to them, except with tears alone:

For if I say, to heaven

then the poor things

wish to learn, How far is it, and where, and when their mother

will return.

Yes, I have left the golden shore,

Albert Pike.

Where childhood 'midst the roses play'd: Those sunny dreams will come no more, That youth a long bright Sabbath made. Yet while those dreams of memory's eye Arise in many a glittering train,

My soul goes back to infancy,

And hears my mother's song again!

Number thy lamps of love, and tell me now
How many canst thou re-light at the stars,
And blush not at their burning? One-one only-
Lit while your pulses by one heart kept time,
And fed with faithful fondness to your grave —
(Though sometimes with a hand stretch'd back
from heaven)

Steadfast through all things—near when most
forgot-

And with its finger of unerring truth

Pointing the lost way in thy darkest hour—
One lamp-thy mother's love· amid the stars
Shall lift its pure flame changeless, and before
The throne of God burn through eternity -
Holy-as it was lit and lent thee here.

Willis's Poems.
Dear mother, of the thousand strings which waken
The sleeping harp within the human heart,
The longest kept in tune, though oft forsaken,

Is that in which the mother's voice hath part:
Her still, small voice, which e'en the careless ear
Turneth with reverence deep and pure delight to
hear.
Mrs. E. J. Eames.

My mother! at that holy name
Within my bosom there's a gush
Of feeling which no time can tame,
A feeling which for years of fame

I would not, could not crush!

George P. Morris
When we see the flower seeds wafted
From the nurturing mother tree,
Tell we can, wherever planted,
What the harvesting will be;

Never from the blasting thistle

Was there gather'd golden grain,—

Willis Gaylord Clark. Thus the seal the child receiveth
From its mother will remain.

And while my soul retains the power
To think upon each faded year,
In every bright or shadow'd hour,
My heart shall hold my mother dear.
The hills may tower- the waves may rise,
And roll between my home and me;

-

Yet shall my quenchless memories
Turn with undying love to thee.

Willis Gaylord Clark.
Mother! dear mother! the feelings nurst
As I hung at thy bosom, clung round thee first.
"I was the earliest link in love's warm chain-
"I is the only one that will long remain:
And as year by year, and day by day,
Some friend still trusted drops away,
Mother! dear mother! oh! dost thou see
How the shorten'd chain brings me nearer thee?
Willis's Earlier Poems.

Mrs. Hale's Poems.
Earth held no symbol, had no living sign
To image forth the mother's deathless love;
And so the tender care the righteous prove,
Beneath the ever-watching Eye divine,
Was given as type to show how pure a shrine
The mother's heart was hallow'd from above;
And how her mortal hopes must intertwine

With hopes immortal;—and she may not move
From this high station which her Saviour seal'd,
When in maternal arms he lay reveal'd.

Mrs. Hale's Poems,

O wondrous power! how little understood,—
Entrusted to the mother's mind alone,
To fashion genius, form the soul for good,
Inspire a West, or train a Washington!
Mrs. Hale's Poems.