MATER DOLOROSA

BECAUSE of little low-laid heads, all crowned

With golden hair,

Forevermore all fair young brows to me A halo wear:

I kiss them rev' rently,-alas, I know The stains I bear.

Because of dear but close-shut holy eyes Of heaven's own blue,

All little eyes do fill my own with tears, Whate'er their hue;

And motherly I gaze their innocent Clear depths into.

Because of little pallid lips which once My name did call,

No childish voice in vain appeal, upon My ear doth fall.

I count it all my joy their joys to share And sorrows small.

Because of little dimpled cherished hands Which folded lie,

All little hands henceforth to me do have A pleading cry;

I clasp them as they were small wandering birds

Lured home to fly.

Because of little death-cold feet, for earth's

Rough roads unmeet,

I'd journey leagues to save from sin or

harm

Such little feet;

And count the lowliest service done for

them

So sacred sweet.

MARY K. FIELD.

A LITTLE GRAVE

SOFTLY, tread softly. A baby's asleep Under the daisies and grass;

Over his bosom the violets creep,

Ah, but his slumber is tender and deep, Watched by the Father that loveth His

own.

Dear little baby, sleep sweetly to-day,Rest that is sweeter no baby hath known.

Softly, tread softly, nor wake from his sleep

Under the daisies and grass,

This little one sleeping with flowers on its breast,

Knowing of quiet the sweetest and best. Never the sorrowful secrets of life,

Never the mystery clinging to death.

For this wee sleeper,-he's done with

the strife.

Grave, guard him closely your blossoms beneath.

Some mother misses this babe from her breast

Under the daisies and grass:

Often at twilight she hushed it to rest, Singing the songs that a baby loves best. Ah, but the arms of the mother of all Wrappeth the little one close to her breast;

Kind Mother Earth, when the night shadows fall,

Gather us all to your bosom to rest.

ANONYMOUS.

BEST

MOTHER, I see you with your nursery

light

Leading your babies all in white

To their sweet rest:

Christ, the Good Shepherd, carries mine to-night,

And that is best.

I cannot help tears, when I see them twine

Their fingers in yours, and their bright curls shine

On your warm breast;

But the Saviour's is purer than yours or mine,

He can love best.