mis dook is uuc on tne last date stamped below 
 

 
 'V 
 
 An Anthology of 
 Mother Verse
 
 AN ANTHOLOGY 
 OF MOTHER VERSE 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 
 KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN 
 
 
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 ; 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 
 MDCCCCXIX 
 
 519
 
 COPYRIGHT, I9I7, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
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 God dives usmends^and that means mack ; 
 
 j3ut far above all others, 
 Jhe greatest of his &ifts to earth, 
 
 v\fas when He tkhight of Mothers
 
 r 
 
 HYMN FOR THE MOTHER 
 
 My child is lying on my knees; 
 
 The signs of heaven she reads; 
 My face is all the heaven she sees, 
 
 Is all the heaven she needs. 
 
 And she is well, yea, bathed in bliss. 
 If heaven is in my face, — 
 
 \ 
 
 N 
 
 Behind it is all tenderness 
 And truthfulness and grace. 
 
 I mean her well so earnestly, 
 Unchanged in changing mood; 
 
 My life would go without a sigh 
 To bring her something good. 
 
 I also am a child, and I 
 
 Am ignorant and weak; 
 I gaze upon the starry shy, 
 
 And then I must not speak; 
 
 For all behind the starry sky, 
 Behind, the world so broad, 
 
 Behind mens hearts and souls doth lie 
 The Infinite of God. 
 
 Ay, true to her, though troubled sore, 
 
 I cannot choose but be: 
 Thou who art peace for evermore 
 
 Art very true to me. 
 vii
 
 Hymn for tlie Mother 
 
 If I am low and sinful, bring 
 More love where need is rife; 
 
 Thou knowest what an awful thing 
 It is to be a life. 
 
 Hast thou not vrisdom to enwrap 
 
 My waywardness about, 
 In doubting safety on the lap 
 
 Of Love that knows no doubt ? 
 
 Lo ! Lord, I sit in thy wide space, 
 
 My child upon my knee; 
 She looketh up into my face, 
 
 And I look up to thee. 
 
 George Macdonald
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 Scattered throughout the works of the 
 great poets, there are many beautiful trib- 
 utes to mothers and subtle interpretations 
 of motherhood ; also, in old as well as in 
 very new poems, there are illuminating sug- 
 gestions to mothers regarding both their 
 opportunities and their responsibilities. This 
 valuable body of "mother literature" has 
 but one drawback — the fact that it is so 
 diffused. The aim of this book has been to 
 gather together in one volume the very best 
 poems from these various sources, for the 
 use and also for the enjoyment of present- 
 day mothers, both young and old. 
 
 E. McC. 
 Cambridge, April, 1917.
 
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 
 
 Thanks are due the following publishers, 
 and individual owners of copyrights, for their 
 kind permission to include the selections 
 enumerated below : — 
 
 To American Motherhood, for "My 
 Mother," by Frederic Hentz Adams. To 
 the Century Company, for " An English 
 Mother," from Saint- Gaud ens, and Other 
 Poems, by Robert Underwood Johnson. 
 To B. W. Huebsch, for » Mother to Son," 
 and "One Mother," by Irene Rutherford 
 McLeod. To Little, Brown & Co., for 
 " Seven Times Four," by Jean Ingelow ; 
 and " To My First Love, My Mother," by 
 Christina G. Rossetti. To Charles Scrib- 
 ner's Sons, for " A Christmas Carol," and 
 " Cradle Song," by Josiah Gilbert Holland ; 
 " Child and Mother," " Japanese Lullaby," 
 and " Wynken, Blynken, and Nod," by 
 Eugene Field ; and " Matres Dolorosa?," by 
 Robert Bridges. To Sherman, French & 
 Co., for "Motherhood," from The Border 
 of the Lake, by Agnes Lee. To Small, May- 
 nard & Co., for " Christ the Mendicant," 
 " At Bethlehem," and " To His Mother," by 
 John Banister Tabb. To Anna Hempstead 
 
 xi
 
 Acknowledgments 
 
 Branch, for " Songs for My Mother." To 
 Robert Underwood Johnson, for " An Eng- 
 lish Mother," from Saint- Gaudens, and 
 Other Poems, copyright, 1908, by Robert 
 Underwood Johnson. To Rudyard Kipling, 
 for "Mother o' Mine," from TJic Light 
 that Failed, copyright, 1899, by Rndyard 
 Kipling. To Agnes Lee, for " Motherhood," 
 from The Border of the Lake. To Irene 
 Rutherford McLeod, for "Mother to Son," 
 and " One Mother." 
 
 Special thanks are due also to Mr. Frank 
 H. Chase, Reference Librarian, Boston Pub- 
 lic Library, for much kind help in locating 
 poems and copyrights.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 INTRODUCTION. By Kate Douglas Wiggin xvii 
 
 THE YOUNG MOTHER 
 
 Seven Times Four . . . Jean Ingelow 3 
 
 A Mother's Picture 
 
 Edmund Clarence Stedman 4 
 
 Mother's Love . . . Thomas Burbidge 5 
 
 The Widow's Mite Frederick Lockcr-Lampson 7 
 
 The Daguerreotype William Vaughn Moody 7 
 
 Baby's Skies M.C. Bartlett 16 
 
 The Mother's Return Dorothy Wordsworth 16 
 
 Song from "The Princess" 
 
 ("Home they brought her warrior dead") 
 
 Alfred Tennyson 18 
 Alison's Mother to the Brook 
 
 Josephine Preston Peabody 19 
 
 Children's Kisses Josephine Preston Peabody 22 
 
 Maternal Grief . . William Wordsworth 24 
 
 Songs for My Mother 
 
 Anna Hempstead Branch 28 
 
 MOTHERS OF MEN 
 
 Mother and Poet . Elizabeth Barrett Browning 33 
 
 Mother Wept .... Joseph Skipsey 39 
 
 How's My Boy?. . . . Sidney Dobell 40 
 
 The Sad Mother . Katharine Tynan Hinkson 42 
 An Aboriginal Mother's Lament 
 
 Charles Ilarpur 43 
 Lines to My Mother's Picture 
 
 William Cowper 44 
 
 My Mother's Bible . George Pope. Morris 50 
 
 Two Sons .... Robert Buchanan 51 
 
 Mother to Son . Irene Rutherford McLeod 52
 
 Contents 
 
 One Mother . . Irene Rutherford McLeod 64 
 An English Mother 
 
 Robert Underwood Johnson 59 
 
 Matres Dolorosa? .... Robert Bridges 61 
 
 The Absent Soldier Son . . Sidney Dobell 62 
 
 Mother and Son .... Phoebe Cary 63 
 
 Motherhood Agnes Lee 65 
 
 CHRISTMAS MOTHER POEMS 
 
 Hymn on the Nativity . . John Milton 69 
 
 A Mother in Egypt . Marjorie L. C. Pickthall 79 
 
 Christmas Carol Unknovm 82 
 
 Regina Coeli .... Coventry Patmore 83 
 
 Christ the Mendicant . John Banister Tabb 84 
 
 A Christmas Carol . Josiah Gilbert Holland 85 
 
 A Little Child's Hymn Francis Turner Palgrave 86 
 
 A Carol Unknown 87 
 
 LULLABIES 
 
 Sea SI umber- Song . . . Roden Noel 91 
 
 Alfred Tennyson 92 
 
 Sweet and Low . 
 A Cradle Hymn . 
 Cradle Song . 
 Sleep, Baby, Sleep 
 Japanese Lullaby 
 
 Isaac Watts 92 
 Thomas Bailey Aldrich 95 
 Anonymous 95 
 Eugene Field 96 
 The Cottager's Lullaby Dorothy Wordsworth 97 
 Swedish Mother's Lullaby Frederika Bremer 98 
 The Road to Slumber-Land Alary Dow Brine 98 
 Wynken, Blynken, and Nod . Eugene Field 100 
 Auld Daddy Darkness . James Ferguson 102 
 Mother-Song (from "Prince Lucifer") 
 
 Alfred Austin 103 
 Sephestia's Lullaby (from "Menaphon") 
 
 Robert Greene 104 
 
 Cradle Song William Blake 105 
 
 Lullaby of an Infant Chief . Walter Scott 106 
 
 THE JOY OF MOTHERHOOD 
 
 The Firstborn . . John Arthur Goodchild 111 
 Baby-Land George Cooper 112
 
 Contents 
 
 Mother's Song Unknown 113 
 
 Cradle Song Unknown 115 
 
 Cradle Song (from ''Bitter-Sweet") 
 
 Josiah Gilbert Holland 116 
 A Song of Twilight .... Unknown 118 
 Tucking the Baby In . . . Curtis May 119 
 Mother and Child William Gilmore Simms 121 
 Maternity .... Anne P. L. Field 122 
 The Little Black Boy . . William Blake 123 
 
 My Bird Emily C. Judson 124 
 
 Children .... Walter Savage Landor 125 
 My Little Dear .... Dollie Radford 126 
 The Immortality of Love . . Robert Southey 127 
 "That They All May Be One" Roden Noel 128 
 
 OLD-FASHIONED MOTHER POEMS 
 
 My Mother Jane Taylor 133 
 
 Half- Waking . . . William Allingham 135 
 To a Child Embracing His Mother 
 
 Thomas Hood 136 
 Wishing .... William Allingham 137 
 The Visit . From Rhymes for the Nursery 138 
 The Baby . . . Jane and Ann Taylor 141 
 
 Getting Up Jane Taylor 142 
 
 Mamma (from " The Floweret ") 
 
 Anna M. Wells 143 
 
 To My Mother 
 Cuddle Doon 
 The Baby 
 Good-Night . 
 The Old Arm-Chair 
 
 . Thomas Moore 145 
 
 Alexander Anderson 145 
 
 Jane Taylor 147 
 
 Jane Taylor 149 
 
 Eliza Cook 150 
 
 SONNETS ON MOTHERHOOD 
 
 Ad Matrem . . . Julian Henry Fane 155 
 Nature . . Henry Wadsworlh Longfellow 155 
 Bedtime . . . Francis, Earl of Rosslyn 156 
 Her Firstborn . Charles Tennyson Turner 157 
 To A Young Child . . . Eliza Scudder 158
 
 Contents 
 
 The Virgin . . . William Wordsworth 158 
 Thanksgiving After Childbirth 
 
 William Wordsworth 159 
 My Mother .... William Bell Scott 160 
 Evening . . . Wendell Phillips Garrison 161 
 To My First Love, My Mother 
 
 Christina G. Rossetti 161 
 
 TRIBUTES TO MOTHERS 
 
 Mother o' Mine . . . Rudyard Kipling 165 
 
 At Bethlehem 
 To His Mother 
 
 The Shepherdess 
 Motherless 
 
 John Banister Tabb 165 
 John Banister Tabb 166 
 . Alice Meynell 166 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning 167 
 Child and Mother . . . Eugene Field 169 
 My Ain Wife .... Alexander Laing 170 
 She Was a Phantom of Delight 
 
 William Wordsworth 171 
 Cling to Thy Mother . . . George Bethune 172 
 Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep 
 
 Eugene Henry Pullen 174 
 Birth Annie R. Stillman ("Grace Raymond") 175 
 
 Only One George Cooper 176 
 
 "The Old Face of the Mother of Many 
 
 Children" Walt Whitman 177 
 
 A Mother . . . Caroline E. S. Norton 178 
 To My Mother . Robert Haven Schauffler 180 
 My Mother . . . Frederic Hentz Adams 181 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 185 
 
 INDEX OF TITLES 189 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS 193
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 There was once a Child who lived very 
 much by himself in a tall building with many 
 windows looking skyward. 
 
 He did not lack for care, for he had food 
 and drink, shelter and raiment, yet he was 
 always hungry and thirsty and cold, and the 
 young soul of him pined and knew not why. 
 
 The days were very dreary and very long, 
 though in a child's life they should flit by 
 like painted butterflies on the wing. 
 
 There was a courtyard far, far below, so 
 that out-of-doors was not withheld from the 
 Child, but when he reached the place from 
 which the green wood could be seen, the blue 
 sky was so far away that he felt desolate, 
 and longed for a smaller world of which he 
 could be a part. 
 
 And so it was, day after day, till twilight 
 came and hid the bigness of things; and 
 when the cool dark floated into his bedroom 
 
 XVll
 
 Introduction 
 
 and the friendly moon came to keep him 
 company, he was happy, for then he drifted 
 off into the land of dreams. 
 
 The dream led him first into a garden ; 
 open to the sun and offering to every sense a 
 rare and subtle charm that could be felt, but 
 not defined. 
 
 There was a Balm-of-Gilead tree in one 
 corner, and in another a group of young 
 pines, — slender, strong, vigorous trees under 
 which one could hide in the noonday heat. 
 And there were tufts of sweet herbs send- 
 ing out health-giving odors ; and there were 
 perfumed tangles of mignonette and helio- 
 trope and lavender and purple clover, with 
 honeysuckle climbing here and there to make 
 the air fragrant. 
 
 The flowers were all dear, familiar, modest 
 ones, such as violets and pansies, clove-pinks 
 and hyacinths ; but, loveliest of all, was a 
 clump of Madonna lilies, their tall green 
 stalks crowned with dazzling white blossoms. 
 The Child crept under them and, looking up, 
 marveled at the shining purity of the blooms 
 that made a little white heaven over his head. 
 
 There were birds in the trees, and the 
 Child sometimes fancied that they tried to 
 speak to him, although he could never puz- 
 zle out the meaning of their language. But 
 one night when the birds slept he heard the 
 
 xviii
 
 Introduction 
 
 rustle of great wings, a stirring of the air, 
 a soft flutter, and then, in the darkness, a 
 Voice. There was no Presence, but the Voice 
 was clear, and it said: — 
 
 " Do you find the garden beautiful, my 
 child?" 
 
 " The most beautiful thing in the world," 
 answered the Child. " Is it you who are 
 making it?" 
 
 "Yes," said the Voice, "I am making the 
 garden, with your help." 
 
 " But I have done nothing," said the 
 Child. 
 
 "You have loved it," said the Voice, 
 " and Love makes things grow." 
 
 "And shall I ever plant anything in the 
 garden myself?" asked the Child. 
 
 " Yes ; for the garden is now finished save 
 for that which you will plant with your own 
 hands." 
 
 And then the Child awoke with the per- 
 fume of lilies in his nostrils, and it was the 
 beginning of another long day. 
 
 But night came with a difference. The 
 Child had barely slipped into the dream 
 when he felt that he was being swiftly wafted 
 to the garden. And the wings that bore him 
 and guided him were so soft and so strong 
 that he did not wonder when he heard the 
 Voice. 
 
 xix
 
 Introduction 
 
 And the Voice said : — 
 
 " If you were to plant something precious 
 in the garden, my child, what spot would you 
 choose?" 
 
 " I would choose the spot under the Ma- 
 donna lilies," said the Child, "for the blos- 
 soms make a little white heaven overhead 
 and near by is a crystal spring whose peb- 
 bles are changed into gold and precious stones 
 by the moonbeams." 
 
 Like puffs of thistledown they swept 
 over the young pines and floated past the 
 little groves of mignonette and lavender 
 and purple clover, till they alighted near 
 the crystal spring where the Madonna lilies 
 bloomed. 
 
 " Stretch out your hand, my child," said 
 the Voice, " and what you find in the wet 
 grass, that is for you to plant." 
 
 And the Child stretched out his hand and 
 touched something soft and warm hidden in 
 a blanket of leaves. 
 
 "Is it a bird?" he whispered, for he felt 
 a throb under his hand. 
 
 " JVo, it is not a bird ! " said the Voice, — 
 " it is a heart I Make a hollow for it like a 
 nest ; do not unwrap it, but lay it gently in 
 the hollow; cover it lightly with soft earth, 
 then step back, for the place on which you 
 stand will be holy ground."
 
 Introduction 
 
 And the Child did as he was bidden. 
 
 He made a hollow like a nest ; he laid the 
 heart gently in the hollow without removing 
 its blanket of leaves ; then he covered it lightly 
 with earth and stepped back and waited in 
 silence. 
 
 And straightway (for there is no time in 
 dreams) the heart stirred, and trembled, and 
 swelled, and broke through the soft eart-h, and 
 lifted itself and grew. And it seemed to sum- 
 mon to its aid all the richest treasures of 
 the garden ; the strength of the young pines, 
 the aroma of the sweet herbs, the fragrance 
 of the flowers, the healing balsam that flowed 
 from the Balm-of-Gilead tree, and the purity 
 of the lilies. 
 
 And when it came to its moment of full 
 perfection, lo I it was, not a growing and 
 blossoming heart, hut — a Mother! 
 
 And the Child knew ! For knowledge 
 conies swiftly and surely in dreams! 
 
 He stretched out his arms, and in the 
 deep peace that followed mutual recognition 
 and need, the Winged Presence vanished 
 softly into the darkness, leaving the Mother 
 and Child together in the Garden of Dreams. 
 
 Kate Douglas Wiggin

 
 XTOUNGJVtOTHER 

 
 SEVEN TIMES FOUR 
 
 Heigh no ! daisies and buttercups, 
 
 Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall, 
 When the wind wakes how they rock in the 
 grasses, 
 And dance with the cuckoo-buds, slender 
 and small : 
 Here 's two bonny boys, and here 's mother's 
 own lasses, 
 Eager to gather them all. 
 
 Heigh ho ! daisies and buttercups, 
 
 Mother shall thread them a daisy chain ; 
 Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-spar- 
 row, 
 That loved her brown little ones, loved 
 them full fain ; 
 Sing, " Heart thou art wide though the house 
 be but narrow " — 
 Sing once, and sing it again. 
 
 Heigh ho ! daisies and buttercups, 
 
 Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and 
 they bow ; 
 
 A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, 
 
 And haply one musing doth stand at her 
 
 prow. 
 
 3
 
 To Mother 
 
 O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little 
 daughters, 
 Maybe he thinks on you now ! 
 
 Heigh ho ! daisies and buttercups, 
 
 Fair yellow daffodils stately and tall ; 
 A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, 
 And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow 
 and thrall, 
 Send down on their pleasure smiles passing 
 its measure — 
 God that is over us all. 
 
 Jean Ingelow 
 
 A MOTHER'S PICTURE 
 
 She seemed an angel to our infant eyes ! 
 Once, when the glorifying moon revealed 
 Her who at evening by our pillow kneeled — 
 Soft-voiced and golden-haired, from holy 
 
 skies 
 Flown to her loves on wings of Paradise — 
 We looked to see the pinions half-concealed. 
 The Tuscan vines and olives will not yield 
 Her back to me, who loved her in this 
 
 wise, 
 And since have little known her, but have 
 
 grown 
 To see another mother, tenderly, 
 Watch over sleeping darlings of her own ; 
 
 4
 
 The Young Mother 
 
 Perchance the years have changed her : yet 
 
 alone 
 This picture lingers : still she seems to me 
 The fair, young Angel of my infancy. 
 
 Edmund Clarence Stedman 
 
 MOTHER'S LOVE 
 
 He sang so wildly, did the Boy, 
 
 That you could never tell 
 
 If 't was a madman's voice you heard, 
 
 Or if the spirit of a bird 
 
 Within his heart did dwell : 
 
 A bird that dallies with his voice 
 
 Among the matted branches ; 
 
 Or on the free blue air his note 
 
 To pierce, and fall, and rise, and float, 
 
 With bolder utterance launches, 
 
 None ever was so sweet as he, 
 
 The boy that wildly sang to me ; 
 
 Though toilsome was the way and long, 
 
 He led me not to lose the song. 
 
 But when again we stood below 
 
 The unhidden sky, his feet 
 
 Grew slacker, and his note more slow, 
 
 But more than doubly sweet. 
 
 lie led me then a little way 
 
 Athwart the barren moor, 
 
 And then he stayed and bade me stay
 
 To Mother 
 
 Beside a cottage door ; 
 I could have stayed of mine own will, 
 In truth, my eye and heart to fill 
 With the sweet sight which I saw there, 
 At the dwelling of the cottager. 
 
 A little in the doorway sitting, 
 
 The mother plied her busy knitting, 
 
 And her cheek so softly smiled, 
 
 You might be sure, although her gaze 
 
 Was on the meshes of the lace, 
 
 Yet her thoughts were with her child. 
 
 But when the boy had heard her voice, 
 
 As o'er her work she did rejoice, 
 
 His became silent altogether, 
 
 And slily creeping by the wall 
 
 He seiz'd a single plume, let fall 
 
 By some wild bird of longest feather ; 
 
 And all a-tremble with his freak, 
 
 He touch'd her lightly on the cheek. 
 
 Oh, what a loveliness her eyes 
 Gather in that one moment's space, 
 While peeping round the post she spies 
 Her darling's laughing face ! 
 Oh, mother's love is glorifying, 
 On the cheek like sunset lying ; 
 In the eyes a moisten'd light, 
 Softer than the moon at night ! 
 
 Tliomas Burbidge 
 6
 
 The Young Mother 
 
 THE WIDOW'S MITE 
 
 A Widow, — she had only one ! 
 A puny and decrepit son ; 
 
 But, day and night, 
 Though fretful oft, and weak and small, 
 A loving child, he was her all, — 
 
 The Widow's Mite. 
 
 The Widow's Mite — aye, so sustain'd, 
 She battled onward, nor complain'd 
 
 Though friends were fewer : 
 And while she toil'd for daily fare, 
 A little crutch upon the stair 
 
 Was music to her. 
 
 I saw her then, and now I see 
 
 That, though resign'd and cheerful, she 
 
 Has sorrow'd much : 
 She has, — He gave it tenderly, — 
 Much faith, and, carefully laid by, 
 
 A little crutch. 
 
 Frederick Locker-Lamjison 
 
 THE DAGUERREOTYPE 
 
 This, then, is she, 
 
 My mother as she looked at seventeen, 
 When she first met my father. Young in- 
 credibly, 
 
 7
 
 To Mother 
 
 Younger than spring, without the faintest 
 
 trace 
 Of disappointment, weariness, or tear 
 Upon the childlike earnestness and grace 
 Of the waiting face. 
 Those close-wound ropes of pearl 
 (Or common beads made precious by their 
 
 use) 
 Seem heavy for so slight a throat to wear ; 
 But the low bodice leaves the shoulders bare 
 And half the glad swell of the breast, for news 
 That now the woman stirs within the girl. 
 And yet, 
 
 Even so, the loops and globes 
 Of beaten gold 
 And jet 
 
 Hung, in the stately way of old, 
 From the ears' drooping lobes 
 On festivals and Lord's-day of the week, 
 Show all too matron-sober for the cheek, — 
 Which, now I look again, is perfect child, 
 Or no — or no — 't is girlhood's very self, 
 Moulded by some deep, mischief -ridden elf 
 So meek, so maiden mild, 
 But startling the close gazer with the sense 
 Of passion forest-shy and forest-wild, 
 And delicate delirious merriments. 
 
 As a moth beats sidewise 
 And up and over, and tries
 
 The Young Mother 
 
 To skirt the irresistible lure 
 
 Of the flame that has him sure, 
 
 My spirit, that is none too strong to-day, 
 
 Flutters and makes delay, — 
 
 Pausing to wonder at the perfect lips, 
 
 Lifting to muse upon the low-drawn hair 
 
 And each hid radiance there, 
 
 But powerless to stem the tide-race bright, 
 
 The vehement peace which drifts it toward 
 
 the light 
 "Where soon — ah, now, with cries 
 Of grief and giving-up unto its gain 
 It shrinks no longer nor denies, 
 But dips 
 Hurriedly home to the exquisite heart of 
 
 pain, — 
 And all is well, for I have seen them plain, 
 The unforgettable, the unforgotten eyes ! 
 Across the blinding gush of these good tears 
 They shine as in the sweet and heavy years 
 When by her bed and chair 
 We children gathered jealously to share 
 The sunlit aura breathing myrrh and thyme, 
 Where the sore-stricken body made a clime 
 Gentler than May and pleasanter than rhyme, 
 Holier and more mystical than prayer. 
 God, how thy ways are strange ! 
 That this should be, even this, 
 The patient head 
 
 Which suffered years ago the dreary change ! 
 
 9
 
 To Mother 
 
 That these so dewy lips should be the same 
 
 As those I stooped to kiss 
 
 And heard my harrowing half-spoken name, 
 
 A little ere the one who bowed above her, 
 
 Our father and her very constant lover, 
 
 Rose stoical, and we knew that she was dead. 
 
 Then I, who could not understand or share 
 
 His antique nobleness, 
 
 Being unapt to bear 
 
 The insults which time flings us for our 
 
 proof, 
 Fled from the horrible roof 
 Into the alien sunshine merciless, 
 The shrill satiric fields ghastly with day 
 Raging to front God in his pride of sway 
 And hurl across the lifted swords of fate 
 That ringed Him where He sat 
 My puny gage of scorn and desolate hate 
 Which somehow should undo Him, after 
 
 all! 
 That this girl face, expectant, virginal, 
 Which gazes out at me 
 Boon as a sweetheart, as if nothing loth 
 (Save for the eyes, with other presage 
 
 stored) 
 To pledge me troth, 
 
 And in the kingdom where the heart is lord 
 Take sail on the terrible gladness of the 
 
 deep 
 Whose winds the gray Noras keep, — 
 
 10
 
 The Young Mother 
 
 That this should be indeed 
 
 The flesh which caught my soul, a flying 
 
 seed, 
 Out of the to and fro 
 Of scattering hands where the seedsman 
 
 Mage, 
 Stooping from star to star and age to age 
 Sings as he sows ! 
 That underneath this breast 
 Nine moons I fed 
 Deep of divine unrest, 
 While over and over in the dark she said, 
 " Blessed ! but not as happier children 
 
 blessed " — 
 
 That this should be 
 
 Even she . . . 
 
 God, how with time and change 
 
 Thou makest thy footsteps strange ! 
 
 Ah, now I know 
 
 They play upon me, and it is not so 
 
 Why, 't is a girl I never saw before, 
 
 A little thing to flatter and make weep, 
 
 To tease until her heart is sore, 
 
 Then kiss and clear the score ; 
 
 A gypsy run-the-fields, 
 
 A little liberal daughter of the earth, 
 
 Good for what hour of truancy and mirth 
 
 The careless season yields 
 
 Hither-side the flood of the year and yonder 
 
 of the neap ; 
 
 11
 
 To Mother 
 
 Then thank you, thanks again, and twenty 
 light good-byes, — 
 
 shrined above the skies, 
 Frown not, clear brow, 
 Darken not, holy eyes ! 
 
 Thou knowest well I know that it is thou 
 
 Only to save from such memories 
 
 As would unman me quite, 
 
 Here in this web of strangeness caught 
 
 And prey to troubled thought 
 
 Do I devise 
 
 These foolish shifts and slight ; 
 
 Only to shield me from the afflicting sense 
 
 Of some waste influence 
 
 Which from this morning face and lustrous 
 
 hair 
 Breathes on me sudden ruin and despair. 
 In any other guise, 
 
 With any but this girlish depth of gaze, 
 Your coming had not so unsealed and 
 
 poured 
 The dusty amphoras where I had stored 
 The drippings of the winepress of my days. 
 
 1 think these eyes foresee, 
 
 Now in their unawakened virgin time, 
 Their mother's pride in me, 
 And dream even now, unconsciously, 
 Upon each soaring peak and sky-hung lea 
 You pictured I should climb. 
 Broken premonitions come, 
 
 12
 
 The Young Mother 
 
 Shapes, gestures visionary, 
 
 Not as once to maiden Mary 
 
 The manifest angel with fresh lilies came 
 
 Intelligibly calling her by name ; 
 
 But vanishingly, dumb, 
 
 Thwarted and bright and wild, 
 
 As heralding a sin-defiled, 
 
 Earth-encumbered, blood-begotten, passion- 
 ate man-child, 
 
 Who yet should be a trump of mighty call 
 
 Blown in the gates of evil kings 
 
 To make them fall ; 
 
 Who yet should be a sword of flame before 
 
 The soul's inviolate door 
 
 To beat away the clang of hellish wings ; 
 
 Who yet should be a lyre 
 
 Of high unquenchable desire 
 
 In the day of little things, — 
 
 Look where the amphoras, 
 
 The yield of many days, 
 
 Trod by my hot soul from the pulp of 
 self, 
 
 And set upon the shelf 
 
 In sullen pride 
 
 The Vineyard-master's tasting to abide — 
 
 O mother mine ! 
 
 Are these the bringings-in, the doings fine 
 
 Of him who used to praise ? 
 
 Emptied and overthrown 
 
 The jars lie strown. 
 
 13
 
 To Mother 
 
 These, for their flavor duly nursed, 
 
 Drip from the stopples vinegar accursed ; 
 
 These, I thought honied to the very seal, 
 
 Dry, dry, — a little acid meal, 
 
 A pinch of mouldy dust, 
 
 Sole leavings of the amber-mantling must ; 
 
 These rude to look upon, 
 
 But flasking up the liquor dearest won, 
 
 Through sacred hours and hard, 
 
 With watchings and with wrestlings and 
 
 with grief, 
 Even of these, of these in chief, 
 The stale breath sickens reeking from the 
 
 shard. 
 Nothing is left. Aye, how much less than 
 
 naught ! 
 What shall be said or thought 
 Of the slack hours and waste imaginings, 
 The cynic rending of the wings, 
 Known to the froward, that unreckoning 
 
 heart 
 Whereof this brewage was the precious part, 
 Treasured and set away with furtive boast ? 
 O dear and cruel ghost, 
 Be merciful, be just ! 
 See, I was yours and I am in the dust. 
 Then look not so, as if all things were well ! 
 Take your eyes from me, leave me to my 
 
 shame, 
 
 Or else, if gaze they must, 
 
 14
 
 The Young Mother 
 
 Steel them with judgment, darken them with 
 
 blame ; 
 But by the ways of light ineffable 
 You bade me go and I have faltered from, 
 By the low waters moaning out of hell 
 Whereto my feet have come, 
 Lay not on me these intolerable 
 Looks of rejoicing love, of pride, of happy 
 
 trust ! 
 
 Nothing dismayed ? 
 
 By all I say and all I hint not made 
 
 Afraid? 
 
 O then, stay by me ! Let 
 
 These eyes afflict me, cleanse me, keep me 
 
 yet, 
 
 Brave eyes and true ! 
 
 See how the shriveled heart, that long has 
 
 lain 
 Dead to delight and pain, 
 Stirs, and begins again 
 To utter pleasant life, as if it knew 
 The wintry days were through ; 
 As if in its awakening boughs it heard 
 The quick, sweet-spoken bird. 
 Strong eyes and brave, 
 Inexorable to save ! 
 
 William Vaughn Moody 
 
 15
 
 To Mother 
 
 BABY'S SKIES 
 
 Would you know the baby's skies ? 
 Baby's skies are mother's eyes. 
 Mother's eyes and smile together 
 Make the baby's pleasant weather. 
 
 Mother, keep your eyes from tears, 
 Keep your heart from foolish fears. 
 Keep your lips from dull complaining 
 Lest the baby think 't is raining. 
 
 31. C. BartJett 
 
 THE MOTHER'S RETURN 
 
 A month, sweet little ones, is past 
 Since your dear mother went away, — 
 And she to-morrow will return ; 
 To-morrow is the happy day. 
 
 O blessed tidings ! thought of joy ! 
 The eldest heard with steady glee : 
 Silent he stood ; then laughed amain, - 
 And shouted, " Mother, come to me ! ' 
 
 Louder and louder did he shout, 
 With witless hope to bring her near ; 
 Nay, patience ! patience, little boy ! 
 Your tender mother cannot hear." 
 16
 
 The Young Mother 
 
 I told of hills, and far-off towns, 
 And long, long vales to travel through ; 
 He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed, 
 But he submits ; what can he do ? 
 
 No strife disturbs his sister's breast ; 
 She wars not with the Mystery 
 Of time and distance, night and day ; 
 The bonds of our humanity, 
 
 Her joy is like an instinct, joy 
 Of kitten, bird, or summer fly ; 
 She dances, runs without an aim, 
 She chatters in her ecstasy. 
 
 Her brother now takes up the note, 
 And answers back his sister's glee : 
 They hug the infant in my arms, 
 As if to force his sympathy. 
 
 Then, settling into fond discourse, 
 We rested in the garden bower ; 
 While sweetly shone the evening sun 
 In his departing hour. 
 
 We told o'er all that we had done, — 
 Our rambles by the swift brook's side 
 Far as the willow-skirted pool, 
 Where two fair swans together glide. 
 
 17
 
 To Mother 
 
 We talked of change, of winter gone, 
 Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray, 
 Of birds that build their nests and sing, 
 And all " since mother went away ! " 
 
 To her these tales they will repeat, 
 To her our new-born tribes will show, 
 The goslings green, the ass's colt, 
 The lambs that in the meadow go. 
 
 But see, the evening star comes forth ! 
 To bed the children must depart ; 
 A moment's heaviness they feel, 
 A sadness at the heart : 
 
 'T is gone — and in a merry fit 
 They run up stairs in gamesome race ; 
 I, too, infected by their mood, 
 I could have joined the wanton chase. 
 
 Five minutes past — and, O the change ! 
 Asleep upon their beds they lie ; 
 Their busy limbs in perfect rest, 
 And closed the sparkling eye. 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth 
 
 SONG FROM "THE PRINCESS" 
 
 Home they brought her warrior dead ; 
 
 She nor swoon'd nor utter'd cry. 
 All her maidens, watching, said, 
 " She must weep or she will die." 
 
 18
 
 The Young Mother 
 
 Then they praised him, soft and low, 
 Call'd him worthy to be loved, 
 
 Truest friend and noblest foe ; 
 Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 
 
 Stole a maiden from her place, 
 
 Lightly to the warrior stept, 
 Took the face-cloth from the face ; 
 
 Yet she neither moved nor wept. 
 
 Rose a nurse of ninety years, 
 
 Set his child upon her knee — 
 Like summer tempest came her tears — 
 " Sweet my child, I live for thee." 
 
 Alfred Tennyson 
 
 ALISON'S MOTHER TO THE 
 BROOK 
 
 Brook, of the listening grass, 
 Brook of the snn-fleckt wings, 
 Brook of the same wild way and flicker- 
 ing spell ! 
 Must you begone? Will you forever 
 
 pass, 
 After so many years and dear to tell? — 
 Brook of all hoverings . . 
 Brook that I kneel above ; 
 
 Brook of my love. 
 
 19
 
 To Mother 
 
 Ah, but I have a charm to trouble you ; 
 A spell that shall subdue 
 Your all-escaping-heart, unheedful one 
 And unrememberinsr ! 
 Now, when I make my prayer 
 To your wild brightness there 
 That will but run and run, 
 O mindless Water ! — 
 Hark, — now will I bring 
 A grace as wild, — my little yearling daugh- 
 ter, 
 My Alison. 
 
 Heed well that threat ; 
 
 And tremble for your hill-born liberty 
 
 So bright to see ! — 
 
 Your shadow-dappled way, unthwarted yet, 
 
 And the high hills whence all your dearness 
 
 bubbled ; — 
 You, never to possess ! 
 For let her dip but once — O fair and fleet, — 
 Here in your shallows, yes, 
 Here in your silverness 
 Her two blithe feet, — 
 O Brook of mine, how shall your heart be 
 
 troubled ! 
 
 The heart, the bright unmothering heart of 
 
 you, 
 That never knew, — 
 
 20
 
 The Young Mother 
 
 (O never, more than mine of long ago. 
 
 How could we know? — ) 
 
 For who should guess 
 
 The shock and smiting of that perfect- 
 
 ness ? — 
 The lily-thrust of those ecstatic feet 
 Unpityingly sweet ? — 
 Sweet beyond all the blurred blind dreams 
 
 that grope 
 The upward paths of hope? 
 And who could guess 
 The dulcet holiness, 
 
 The lilt and gladness of those jocund feet, 
 Unpityingly sweet? 
 Ah, for your coolness that shall change and 
 
 stir 
 With every glee of her ! — 
 Under the fresh amaze 
 That drips and glistens from her wiles and 
 
 ways; 
 When the endearing air 
 That everywhere 
 
 Must twine and fold and follow her, shall be 
 Rippled to ring on ring of melody, — 
 Music, like shadows from the joy of her, 
 Small starry Reveller! — 
 When from her triumphings, — 
 All frolic wings — 
 
 There soars beyond the glories of the height, 
 The laugh of her delight. 
 
 21
 
 To Mother 
 
 And it shall sound, until 
 
 Your heart stand still; 
 
 Shaken to human sight; 
 
 Struck through with tears and liaht: 
 
 One with the one desire 
 
 Unto that central Fire 
 
 Of Love the Sun, whence all we lighted are 
 
 Even from clod to star. 
 
 And all your glory, O most swift and 
 
 sweet ! — 
 And all your exultation only this ; 
 To be the lowly and forgotten kiss 
 Beneath those feet. 
 
 You that must ever pass, — 
 You of the same wild way, — 
 
 The silver-bright good-bye without a look ! 
 
 You that would never stay, 
 For the beseeching grass . . . 
 Brook ! — 
 
 Josephine Preston Peahody 
 
 CHILDREN'S KISSES 
 
 So; it is nightfall then. 
 The valley flush 
 
 That beckoned home the way for herds 
 and men, 
 Is hardly spent. 
 
 22
 
 The Young Mother 
 
 Down the bright pathway winds, through 
 
 veils of hush 
 And wonderment. 
 Un uttered yet, the chime 
 That tells of folding-time ; 
 Hardly the sun has set. 
 The trees are sweetly troubled with bright 
 
 words 
 From new-alighted birds ; — 
 And yet, . . . 
 Here, — round my neck, are come to cling 
 
 and twine, 
 The arms, the folding arms, close, close and 
 
 fain, 
 All mine! — 
 I pleaded to, in vain, 
 
 I reached for, only to their dimpled scorning, 
 Down the blue halls of Morning ; 
 
 Where all things else could lure them on 
 
 and on, 
 Now here, now gone, — 
 From bush to bush, from beckoning bough 
 
 to bough, 
 With bird-calls of Come Hither! — 
 
 . . . Ah, but now, 
 Now it is dusk. — And from his heaven of 
 
 mirth, 
 A wilding skylark, sudden dropt to earth 
 Along the last low sunbeam yellow moted, 
 
 23
 
 To Mother 
 
 Athrob with joy, — 
 
 There pushes here, a little golden Boy, 
 
 Still-gazing with great eyes. 
 
 And wonder-wise, 
 
 All fragrancy, all valor silver-throated, 
 
 My daughterliug, my swan, 
 
 My Alison ! 
 
 Closer than homing lambs against the bars 
 At folding-time, that crowd, all mother- 
 warm, 
 They crowd, — they cling, they wreathe ; 
 And thick as sparkles of the thronging stars, 
 Their kisses swarm. 
 
 O Rose of being, at whose heart I breathe, 
 
 Fold over; hold me fast 
 
 In the dark Eden of a blinding kiss. 
 
 And lightning heart's-desire, be still at last! 
 
 Heart can no more, — 
 
 Life can no more, 
 
 Than this. 
 
 Josephine Preston Peabody 
 
 MATERNAL GRIEF 
 
 Departed Child ! I could forget thee once 
 Though at my bosom nursed; this woeful 
 
 gain 
 Thy dissolution brings, that in my soul 
 
 24
 
 The Young Mother 
 
 Is present and perpetually abides 
 A shadow, never, never to be displaced 
 By the returning substance, seen or touched, 
 Seen by mine eyes, or clasped in my embrace. 
 Absence and death how differ they ! and how 
 Shall I admit that nothing can restore 
 What one short sigh so easily removed? — 
 Death, life, and sleep, reality and thought, 
 Assist me, God, their boundaries to know, 
 O teach me calm submission to thy Will ! 
 The Child she mourned had overstepped the 
 
 pale 
 Of Infancy, but still did breathe the air 
 That sanctifies its confines, and partook 
 Reflected beams of that celestial light 
 To all the Little-ones on sinful earth 
 Not un vouchsafed — a light that warmed 
 
 and cheered 
 Those several qualities of heart and mind 
 Which, in her own blest nature, rooted deep, 
 Daily before the Mother's watchful eye, 
 And not hers only, their peculiar charms 
 Unfolded, — beauty, for its present self, 
 And for its promises to future years, 
 With not unfrequent rapture fondly hailed. 
 Have you espied upon a dewy lawn 
 A pair of Leverets each provoking each 
 To a continuance of their fearless sport, 
 Two separate Creatures in their several gifts 
 Abounding, but so fashioned that, in all 
 
 25
 
 To Mother 
 
 That Nature prompts them to display, their 
 
 looks, 
 Their starts of motion and their fits of rest, 
 An ^indistinguishable style appears 
 And character of gladness, as if Spring 
 Lodged in their innocent bosoms, and the 
 
 spirit 
 Of rejoicing morning were their own? 
 Such union, in the lovely Girl maintained 
 And her twin Brother, had the parent seen, 
 Ere, pouncing like a ravenous bird of prey, 
 Death in a moment parted them, and left 
 The Mother, in her turns of anguish, worse 
 Than desolate ; for oft-times from the sound 
 Of the survivor's sweetest voice (dear child, 
 He knew it not) and from his happiest 
 
 looks, 
 Did she extract the food of self-reproach, 
 As one that lived ungrateful for the stay 
 By Heaven afforded to uphold her maimed 
 And tottering spirit. And full oft the Boy, 
 Now first acquainted with distress and grief, 
 Shrunk from his Mother's presence, shunned 
 
 with fear 
 Her sad approach, and stole away to find, 
 In his known haunts of joy where'er he 
 
 might, 
 A more congenial object. But, as time 
 Softened her pangs and reconciled the child 
 To what he saw, he gradually returned, 
 
 26
 
 The Young Mother 
 
 Like a scared Bird encouraged to renew 
 A broken intercourse ; and, while his eyes 
 Were yet with pensive fear and gentle awe 
 Turned upon her who bore him, she would 
 
 stoop 
 To imprint a kiss that lacked not power to 
 
 spread 
 Faint color over both their pallid cheeks, 
 And stilled his tremulous lip. Thus they 
 
 were calmed 
 And cheered; and now together breathe 
 
 fresh air 
 In open fields ; and when the glare of day 
 Is gone, and twilight to the Mother's wish 
 Befriends the observance, readily they join 
 In walks whose boundary is the lost One's 
 
 grave, 
 Which he with flowers had planted, finding 
 
 there 
 Amusement, where the Mother does not 
 
 miss 
 Dear consolation, kneeling on the turf 
 In prayer, yet blending with that solemn 
 
 rite 
 Of pious faith the vanities of grief ; 
 For such, by pitying Angels and by Spirits 
 Transferred to regions upon which the clouds 
 Of our weak nature rest not, must be deemed 
 Those willing tears, and unforbidden sighs, 
 And all those tokens of a cherished sorrow, 
 
 27
 
 To Mother 
 
 Which, soothed and sweetened by the grace 
 
 of Heaven 
 As now it is, seems to her own fond heart, 
 Immortal as the love that gave it being. 
 
 William Wordsworth 
 
 SONGS FOR MY MOTHER 
 
 I 
 
 HER HANDS 
 
 My mother's hands are cool and fair, 
 
 They can do anything. 
 Delicate mercies hide them there 
 
 Like flowers in the spring. 
 
 When I was small and could not sleep, 
 
 She used to come to me, 
 And with my cheek upon her hand 
 
 How sure my rest woidd be. 
 
 For everything she ever touched 
 
 Of beautiful or fine, 
 Their memories living in her hands 
 
 Would warm that sleep of mine. 
 
 Her hands remember how they played 
 One time in meadow streams, — 
 
 And all the flickering song and shade 
 Of water took my dreams. 
 
 28
 
 The Young Mother 
 
 Swift through her haunted fingers pass 
 Memories of garden things ; — 
 
 I dipped my face in flowers and grass 
 And sounds of hidden wings. 
 
 One time she touched the cloud that kissed 
 Brown pastures bleak and far ; — 
 
 I leaned my cheek into a mist 
 And thought I was a star. 
 
 o 
 
 All this was very long ago 
 
 And I am grown ; but yet 
 The hand that lured my slumber so 
 
 I never can forget. 
 
 For still when drowsiness comes on 
 
 It seems so soft and cool, 
 Shaped happily beneath my cheek, 
 
 Hollow and beautiful. 
 
 II 
 
 HER WORDS 
 
 My mother has the prettiest tricks 
 Of words and words and words. 
 
 Her talk comes out as smooth and sleek 
 As breasts of singing birds. 
 
 She shapes her speech all silver fine 
 
 Because she loves it so. 
 And her own eyes begin to shine 
 
 To hear her stories grow. 
 29
 
 To Mother 
 
 And if she goes to make a call 
 
 Or out to take a walk 
 We leave our work when she returns 
 
 And run to hear her talk. 
 
 We had not dreamed these things were so 
 
 Of sorrow and of mirth. 
 Her speech is as a thousand eyes 
 
 Through which we see the earth. 
 
 God wove a web of loveliness, 
 Of clouds and stars and birds, 
 
 But made not anything at all 
 So beautiful as words. 
 
 They shine around our simple earth 
 
 With golden shadowings, 
 And every common thing they touch 
 
 Is exquisite with wings. 
 
 There 's nothing poor and nothing small 
 
 But is made fair with them. 
 They are the hands of living faith 
 
 That touch the garment's hem. 
 
 They are as fair as bloom or air, 
 
 They shine like any star, 
 And I am rich who learned from her 
 
 How beautiful they are. 
 
 Anna Hempstead Branch
 
 MOTHERS of MEN
 
 MOTHER AND POET 
 
 Dead ! One of them shot by the sea in the 
 east, 
 And one of them shot in the west by the 
 sea. 
 Dead! both my boys! When you sit at the 
 feast 
 And are wanting a great song for Italy 
 
 free, 
 Let none look at me ! 
 
 Yet I was a poetess only last year, 
 
 And good at my art, for a woman men 
 said ; 
 But this woman, this, who is agoniz'd here, 
 — The east sea and west sea rhyme on in 
 
 her head 
 Forever instead. 
 
 What art can a woman be good at ? Oh, vain ! 
 
 What art is she good at, but hurting her 
 
 breast 
 
 With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile 
 
 at the pain ? 
 
 Ah boys, how you hurt ! you were strong 
 
 as you pressed 
 And T proud, by that test. 
 33
 
 To Mother 
 
 What art's for a woman? To hold on 
 her knees 
 Both darlings; to feel all their arms 
 round her throat, 
 Cling, strangle a little, to sew by de- 
 grees 
 And 'broider the long-clothes and neat 
 
 little coat ; 
 To dream and to doat. 
 
 To teach them. ... It stings there! I 
 made them indeed 
 Speak plain the word country. I taught 
 them, no doubt, 
 That a country 's a thing men should die 
 for at need. 
 I prated of liberty, rights, and about 
 The tyrant cast out. 
 
 And when their eyes flashed . . . O my 
 beautiful eyes! . . . 
 I exulted ; nay, let them go forth at the 
 wheels 
 Of the guns, and denied not. But then 
 the surprise 
 When one sits quite alone ! Then one 
 
 weeps, then one kneels ! 
 God, how the house feels ! 
 
 34
 
 Mothers of Men 
 
 At first, happy news came, in gay letters 
 moil'd 
 With my kisses, — of camp-life and glory, 
 and how 
 They both lov'd me ; and, soon coming home 
 to be spoil'd, 
 In return would fan off every fly from my 
 
 brow 
 With their green laurel-bough. 
 
 Then was triumph at Turin : " Ancona was 
 free ! " 
 And some one came out of the cheers in 
 the street, 
 With a face pale as stone, to say something 
 to me. 
 My Guido was dead ! I fell down at his 
 
 feet, 
 While they cheer 'd in the street. 
 
 I bore it ; friends sooth'd me ; my grief 
 look'd sublime 
 As the ransom of Italy. One boy re- 
 main'd 
 To be leant on and walk'd with, recalling 
 the time 
 When the first grew immortal, while both 
 
 of them strain'd 
 To the height he had gain'd. 
 35
 
 To Mother 
 
 And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more 
 strong, 
 Writ now, but in one hand, " I was not 
 to faint, — 
 One lov'd me for two — would be with me 
 ere long: 
 And Viva V Italia! — he died for, our 
 
 saint, 
 Who forbids our complaint." 
 
 My Nanni would add, " he was safe, and 
 aware 
 Of a presence that turn'd off the balls, — 
 was impress'd 
 It was Guido himself, who knew what I 
 could bear, 
 And how 't was impossible, quite dis- 
 
 possess'd, 
 To live on for the rest." 
 
 On which without pause, up the telegraph- 
 line, 
 Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta : 
 — Shot. 
 Tell his mother. Ah, ah, "his," "their" 
 mother, — not " mine," 
 No voice says "My mother" again to me. 
 
 What ! 
 You think Guido forgot? 
 
 36
 
 Mothers of Men 
 
 Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with 
 Heaven, 
 They drop earth's affections, conceive not 
 of woe? 
 I think not. Themselves were too lately for- 
 given 
 Through that Love and Sorrow which rec- 
 
 oncil'd so 
 The Above and Below. 
 
 O Christ of the five wounds, who look'st 
 through the dark 
 To the face of Thy Mother ! consider I 
 pray, 
 How we common mothers stand desolate, 
 mark, 
 Whose sons, not being Christs, die with 
 
 eyes turn'd away, 
 And no last word to say ! 
 
 Both boys dead ? but that 's out of nature. 
 We all 
 Have been patriots, yet each house must 
 always keep one. 
 'T were imbecile, hewing out roads to a 
 wall; 
 And when Italy 's made, for what end is 
 
 it done 
 If we have not a son? 
 r,7 
 
 64219
 
 To Mother 
 
 Ah, all, ah ! when Gaeta 's taken, what 
 then? 
 When the fair wicked queen sits no more 
 at her sport 
 Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out 
 of men? 
 When the guns of Cavilli with final re- 
 tort 
 Have cut the game short ? 
 
 When Venice and Rome keep their own 
 jubilee, 
 When your flag takes all heaven for its 
 white, green, and red, 
 When you have your country from mountain 
 to sea, 
 When King Victor has Italy's crown on 
 
 his head, 
 (And I have my Dead) — 
 
 What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring 
 your bells low, 
 And burn your lights faintly ! My country 
 is there, 
 Above the star prick'd by the last peak of 
 snow : 
 My Italy 's there, with my brave civic 
 
 Pair, 
 To disfranchise despair! 
 38
 
 Mothers of Men 
 
 Forgive me. Some women bear children in 
 strength, 
 And bite buck the cry of their pain in 
 self-scorn ; 
 But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us 
 at length 
 Into wail such as this — and we sit on 
 
 forlorn 
 When the man-child is born. 
 
 Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the 
 east, 
 And one of them shot in the west by the 
 sea, 
 Both ! both my boys ! If in keeping the feast, 
 You want a great song for your Italy free, 
 Let none look at me. 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning 
 
 MOTHER WEPT 
 
 Mother wept, and father sigh'd ; 
 
 With delight a-glow 
 Cried the lad, " To-morrow," cried, 
 "To the pit I go." 
 
 Up and down the place he sped, 
 
 Greeted old and young, 
 Far and wide the tidings spread, 
 
 Clapp'd his hands and sung. 
 89
 
 To Mother 
 
 Came his cronies, some to gaze 
 
 Rapt in wonder ; some 
 Free with counsel ; some with praise ; 
 
 Some with envy dumb. 
 
 " May he," many a gossip cried, 
 
 " Be from peril kept " ; 
 Father hid his face and sighed, 
 Mother turned and wept. 
 
 Josejjh Shipsey 
 
 HOW'S MY BOY? 
 
 " Ho, Sailor of the sea ! 
 
 How 's my boy — my boy ? " 
 " What 's your boy's name, good wife, 
 
 And in what good ship sail'd he?" 
 " My boy John — 
 
 He that went to sea — 
 
 What care I for the ship, sailor? 
 
 My boy 's my boy to me. 
 
 " You come back from sea, 
 And not know my John? 
 I might as well have ask'd some landsman 
 Yonder down in the town. 
 There 's not an ass in all the parish 
 But he knows my John. 
 
 " How 's my boy — my boy ? 
 And unless you let me know 
 40
 
 Mothers of Men 
 
 I '11 swear you are no sailor, 
 
 Blue jacket or no, 
 
 Brass buttons or no, sailor, 
 
 Anchor or crown or no ! 
 
 Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton " — 
 " Speak low, woman, speak low ! " 
 " And why should I speak low, sailor, 
 
 About my own boy John? 
 
 If I was loud as I am proud 
 
 I 'd sing him over the town ! 
 
 Why should I speak low, sailor? " 
 " That good ship went down." 
 
 " How 's my boy — my boy ? 
 
 "What care I for the ship, sailor ? 
 
 I was never aboard her. 
 
 Be she afloat or be she aground, 
 
 Sinking or swimming, I '11 be bound, 
 
 Her owners can afford her ! 
 
 I say how 's my John ? " 
 " Every man on board went down, 
 
 Every man aboard her." 
 
 " How 's my boy — my boy ? 
 What care I for the men, sailor ? 
 I 'm not their mother — 
 How 's my boy — my boy ? 
 Tell me of him and no other ! 
 How 's my boy — my boy?" 
 
 Sidney Dobell 
 41
 
 To Mother 
 THE SAD MOTHER 
 
 when the half-light weaves 
 Wild shadows on the floor, 
 
 How ghostly come the withered leaves 
 Stealing about my door! 
 
 1 sit and hold my breath, 
 
 Lone in the lonely house ; 
 Naught breaks the silence still as death, 
 Only a creeping mouse. 
 
 The patter of leaves, it may be, 
 
 But liker patter of feet, 
 The small feet of my own baby 
 
 That never felt the heat. 
 
 The small feet of my son, 
 Cold as the graveyard sod ; 
 
 My little, dumb, unchristened one 
 That may not win to God. 
 
 "Come in, dear babe," I cry, 
 Opening the door so wide. 
 The leaves go stealing softly by; 
 How dark it is outside! 
 
 And though I kneel and pray 
 Long on the threshold-stone 
 The little feet press on their way, 
 And I am ever alone. 
 
 Katharine Tynan Hinhson 
 42
 
 Mothers of Men 
 
 AN ABORIGINAL MOTHER'S 
 LAMENT 
 
 Still farther would I fly, my child, 
 
 To make thee safer yet, 
 From the unsparing white man, 
 
 With his dread hand murder- wet ! 
 I '11 bear thee on as I have borne 
 
 With stealthy steps wind-fleet, 
 But the dark night shrouds the forest, 
 
 And thorns are in my feet. 
 
 O moan not ! I would give this braid — 
 
 Thy father's gift to me — 
 But for a single palmful 
 
 Of water now for thee. 
 
 Ah ! spring not to his name — no more 
 
 To glad us may he come — 
 He is smoldering into ashes 
 
 Beneath the blasted gum : 
 All charred and blasted by the fire 
 
 The white man kindled there, 
 And fed with our slaughtered kindred 
 
 Till heaven-high went its glare ! 
 
 And but for thee, I would their fire 
 
 Had eaten me as fast! 
 Hark! Hark! I hear his death-cry 
 
 Yet lengthening up the blast! 
 43
 
 To Mother 
 
 But no — when his bound hands had signed 
 
 The way that we should fly, 
 On the roaring pyre flung bleeding — 
 
 I saw thy father die ! 
 
 No more shall his loud tomahawk 
 
 Be plied to win our cheer, 
 Or the shining fish pools darken 
 
 Beneath his shadowing spear: 
 The fading tracks of his fleet foot 
 
 Shall guide not as before, 
 And the mountain-spirits mimic 
 
 His hunting call no more! 
 
 *o 
 
 O moan not ! I would give this braid — 
 
 Thy father's gift to me — 
 For but a single palmful 
 
 Of water now for thee. 
 
 Charles Harpur 
 
 LINES TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE 
 
 O that those lips had language ! Life has 
 
 passed 
 With me but roughly since I heard thee 
 
 last. 
 Those lips are thine, — thy own sweet smile 
 
 I see, 
 The same that oft in childhood solaced 
 
 me; 
 
 44
 
 Mothers of Men 
 
 Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 
 " Grieve not, my child ; chase all thy fears 
 
 away!" 
 The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
 (Blest be the art that can immortalize, 
 The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim 
 To quench it!) here shines on me still the 
 
 same. 
 Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 
 
 welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 
 Who bid'st me honor with an artless song, 
 Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 
 
 1 will obey, not willingly alone, 
 
 But gladly, as the precept were her own ; 
 And, while that face renews my filial grief, 
 Fancy shall weave a charni for my relief, 
 Shall steep me in Elysian revery, 
 A momentary dream that thou art she. 
 My mother! when I learned that thou 
 wast dead, 
 Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? 
 Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, 
 Wretch even then, Life's journey just be- 
 gun? 
 Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a 
 
 kiss; 
 Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
 Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — Yes. 
 I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, 
 I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 
 
 45
 
 To Mother 
 
 And, turning from my nursery window, drew 
 A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu. 
 But was it such? It was. Where thou art 
 
 gone, 
 Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
 May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 
 The parting words shall pass my lips no more! 
 Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my con- 
 cern, 
 Oft gave me promise of thy quick return ; 
 What ardently I wished I long believed, 
 And, disappointed still, was still deceived; 
 By expectation every day beguiled, 
 Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
 Thus many a sad to-morrow came aud went, 
 Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, 
 I learned at last submission to my lot; 
 But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er for- 
 got. 
 Where once we dwelt our name is heard 
 no more, 
 Children not thine have trod my nursery 
 
 floor; 
 And where the gardener Robin, day by day, 
 Drew me to school along the public way, 
 Delighted with my bawble coach, and wrapped 
 In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, 
 'T is now become a history little known, 
 That once we called the pastoral house our 
 own. 
 
 46
 
 Mothers of Men 
 
 Short-lived possession ! but the record fair, 
 That memory keeps of all thy kindness 
 
 there, 
 Still outlives many a storm that has effaced 
 A thousand other themes less deeply traced. 
 Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 
 That thou mightst know me safe and warmly 
 
 laid, — 
 All this, and, more endearing still than all, 
 Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, 
 Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and 
 
 breaks 
 That humor interposed too often makes, — 
 All this, still legible in memory's page, 
 And still to be so to my latest age, 
 Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
 Such honors to thee as my numbers may; 
 Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, 
 Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed 
 
 here, 
 Could Time, his flight reversed, restore 
 
 the hours 
 "When, playing with thy vesture's tissued 
 
 flowers, 
 The violet, the pink, and jessamine, 
 I pricked them into paper with a pin, 
 (And thou wast happier than myself the 
 
 while, 
 Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, 
 
 and smile,) — 
 
 47
 
 To Mother 
 
 Could those few pleasant days again appear, 
 Might one wish bring them, would I wish 
 
 them here? 
 I would not trust my heart, — the dear de- 
 light 
 Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. 
 But no, — what here we call our life is such, 
 So little to be loved, and thou so much, 
 That I should ill requite thee to constrain, 
 Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 
 
 Thou, as a gallant bark from albion's 
 coast 
 (The storms all weathered and the ocean 
 
 crossed) 
 Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, 
 Where spices breathe and brighter seasons 
 
 smile ; 
 There sits quiescent on the floods, that show 
 Her beauteous form reflected clear below, 
 While airs impregnated with incense play 
 Around her, fanning light her streamers 
 
 So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reached 
 
 the shore, 
 Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar ; 
 And thy loved consort, on the dangerous tide 
 Of life, long since has anchored by thy side. 
 But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, 
 Always from port withheld, always dis- 
 tressed, — 
 
 48
 
 Mothers of Men 
 
 Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest- 
 tossed, 
 Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and com- 
 pass lost ; 
 And day by day some current's thwarting 
 
 force 
 Sets me more distant from a prosperous 
 
 course. 
 Yet O, the thought that thou art safe, and 
 
 he! — 
 That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
 My boast is not that I deduce my birth 
 From loins enthroned, and rulers of the 
 
 earth ; 
 But higher far my proud pretensions rise, — 
 The son of parents passed into the skies. 
 And now farewell ! — Time, unrevoked, has 
 
 run 
 His wonted course, yet what I wished is 
 
 done. 
 By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 
 I seem to have lived my childhood o'er 
 
 again, — 
 To have renewed the joys that once were mine 
 Without the sin of violating thine ; 
 And while the wings of Fancy still are free, 
 And I can view this mimic show of thee, 
 Time has but half succeeded in his theft, — 
 Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. 
 
 William Cowper 
 49
 
 To Mother 
 
 MY MOTHER'S BIBLE 
 
 Tins 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 ! 
 50
 
 Mothers of Men 
 
 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. 
 
 One is fierce and cold, wife, 
 
 As the wayward deep ; 
 Him no arras could hold, wife, 
 Him no breast could keep, 
 lie has tried our hearts for many a year, not 
 
 broken them ; for he 
 Is still the sinless little one that sits upon 
 your knee. 
 
 61
 
 To Mother 
 
 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 mv knee, 
 And nursed you where no eye could see. 
 When I grew up to woman's grace 
 I saw you in your father's face, 
 
 52
 
 Mothers of Men 
 
 Your hands were beating at ray 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? 
 
 58
 
 To Mother 
 
 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 iove make no woman weep, 
 For my lo^e 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. 
 
 54
 
 Mothers of Men 
 
 God frightens me. He's strange. I know 
 
 Him not. 
 And all my usual prayers I have forgot: 
 But you — you had a son — I remember now! 
 You are not Mary of the virgin brow ! 
 You agonized for Jesus! You went down 
 Into the ugly depths for him. Your crown 
 Is my crown ! I 've seen you in the street, 
 Begging your way for broken bread and 
 
 meat : 
 I 've seen you in trams, in shops, among old 
 
 faces, 
 Young eyes, brave lips, broad backs, in all 
 
 the places 
 Where women work, and weep, in pain, in 
 
 pride. 
 Your hands were gnarled that held him 
 
 when he died ! 
 Not the fair hands that painters give you, 
 
 white 
 And slim. You never had such hands : night 
 And day you laboured, night and day, from 
 
 child 
 To woman. You were never soft and mild, 
 But strong-limbed, patient, brown-skinned 
 
 from the sun, 
 Deep-bosomed, brave-eyed, holy, holy One! 
 I know you now ! I seek you, Mary ! Spread 
 Your compassionate skirts! I bring to you 
 
 my dead! 
 
 55
 
 To Mother 
 
 This was my man. I bore him. I did not 
 
 know 
 Then how he crowned me, but I felt it so. 
 He was my all the world. I loved him best 
 When he was helpless, clamouring at my 
 
 breast. 
 Mothers are made like that. You '11 under- 
 stand 
 Who held your Jesus helpless in your hand 
 And loved his impotence. But as he grew 
 I watched him, always jealously, I knew 
 Each line of his young body, every tone 
 Of speech ; his pains, his triumphs were my 
 
 own. 
 I saw the down come on his cheeks with 
 
 dread, 
 And soon I had to reach to hold his head 
 And stroke his mop of hair. I watched his eyes 
 When women crossed his ways, and I was 
 
 wise 
 For him who had no wisdom. He was young, 
 And loathed my care, and lashed me with 
 
 youth's tongue. 
 Splendidly merciless, casual of age, his scorn 
 Was sweet to me of whom his strength was 
 
 born. 
 . . . Besides, when he was more than six 
 
 foot tall 
 He kept the smile he had when he was 
 
 small ! . . . 
 
 56
 
 Mothers of Men 
 
 And still no woman bad him. I was glad 
 Of that — and then O God ! The world ran 
 
 mad! 
 Almost before I knew, this noise was war; 
 Death and not women took the son I bore . . . 
 
 You 11 know him when you see him : first of 
 
 all 
 Because he '11 smile that way when he was 
 
 small ; 
 And then his eyes! They never changed 
 
 from blue 
 To duller grey, as other children's do, 
 But like his childish dreams he kept his 
 
 eyes 
 Vivid, and deeply clear, and vision wise. 
 Seek for him, Mary ! Bright among the 
 
 ghosts 
 Of other women's sons he '11 star those hosts 
 Of shining boys! (He always topped his 
 
 class 
 At school!) Lean forward, Mary, as they 
 
 pass, 
 And touch him! When you see his eyes 
 
 you '11 weep 
 And think him your own Jesus! Let him 
 
 sleep 
 In your deep bosom, Mary, then you'll 
 
 see 
 His lashes, how they curl, so childishly 
 
 57
 
 To Mother 
 
 You '11 weep again, and rock him on your 
 
 heart 
 As I did once, that night we had to part. 
 He '11 come to you all bloody and be-mired, 
 But let him sleep, my dear, for he '11 be tired, 
 And very shy. If he 'd come home to me 
 I would n't ask the neighbours in to tea . . . 
 He always hated crowds ... I 'd let him 
 
 be. . . . 
 
 And then perhaps you '11 take him by the 
 
 hand 
 And comfort him from fear when he must 
 
 stand 
 Before God's dreadful throne ; then, will you 
 
 call 
 That boy whose bullet made my darling fall, 
 And take him by the other hand, and say . . . 
 " God, whose So?i the hands of men did 
 
 slay, 
 These are Thy children who do take away 
 
 The sins of the world. . . ." 
 
 Irene Rutherford McLeod 
 
 58
 
 Mothers of Men 
 AN ENGLISH MOTHER i 
 
 Every week of every season out of English 
 
 ports go forth, 
 White of sail or white of trail, East, or West, 
 
 or South, or North, 
 Scattering like a flight of pigeons, half a 
 
 hundred home-sick ships, 
 Bearing half a hundred striplings — each with 
 
 kisses on his lips 
 Of some silent mother, fearful lest she shows 
 
 herself too fond, 
 Giving him to bush or desert as one pays a 
 
 sacred bond, 
 — Tell us, you who hide your heartbreak, 
 
 which is sadder, when all 's done, 
 To repine an English mother, or to roam, an 
 
 English son? 
 
 You who shared your babe's first sorrow when 
 
 his cheek no longer pressed 
 On the perfect, snow-aud-roseleaf beauty of 
 
 your mother-breast, 
 In the rigor of his nurture was your woman's 
 
 mercy mute, 
 Knowing he was doomed to exile with the 
 
 savage and the brute ? 
 
 1 By permission of the author, Robert Underwood 
 Johnson. From Saint-Gaudens and other Poems. Copy- 
 right, 1908, by Robert Underwood Johnson. 
 
 59
 
 To Mother 
 
 Did you school yourself to absence all his 
 
 adolescent years, 
 That, though you be torn with parting, he 
 
 should never see the tears? 
 Now his ship has left the offing for the many- 
 
 niouthed sea, 
 This your guerdon, empty heart, by empty 
 
 bed to bend the knee? 
 
 And if he be but the latest thus to leave your 
 dwindling board, 
 
 Is a sorrow less for being added to a sor- 
 row's hoard? 
 
 Is the mother-pain duller that to-day his 
 brothers stand, 
 
 Facing ambuscades of Congo, or alarms from 
 Zululand ? 
 
 Toil, where blizzards drift the snow like 
 smoke across the plains of death? 
 
 Faint, where tropic fens at morning steam 
 with fever-laden breath? 
 
 Die, that in some distant river's veins the 
 English blood may run — 
 
 Mississippi, Yangtze, Ganges, Nile, Mac- 
 kenzie, Amazon? 
 
 Ah! you still must wait and suffer in a soli- 
 tude untold, 
 
 While your sisters of the nations call you 
 passive, call you cold — 
 60
 
 Mothers of Men 
 
 Still must scan the news of sailings, breath- 
 less search the slow gazette, 
 
 Find the dreadful name . . . and, later, get 
 his blithe farewell ! And yet — 
 
 Shall the lonely hearthstone shame the legions 
 who have died 
 
 Grudging not the price their country pays 
 for progress and for pride? 
 
 — Nay ; but, England, do not ask U3 thus to 
 emulate your scars 
 
 Until women's tears are reckoned in the 
 budgets of your wars. 
 
 Robert Underwood Johnson 
 
 MATRES DOLOROSA 
 
 Ye Spartan mothers, gentle ones, 
 
 Of lion-hearted, loving sons 
 
 FalFn, the flower of English youth, 
 
 To a barbarous foe in a land uncouth : — 
 
 O what a delicate sacrifice ! 
 Unequal the stake and costly the price 
 As when the queen of Love deplor'd 
 Her darling by the wild beast gor'd. 
 
 They rode to war as if to the hunt, 
 But ye at home, ye bore the brunt, 
 Bore the siege of torturing fears, 
 Fed your hope on the bread of tears. 
 
 61
 
 To Mother 
 
 Proud and spotless warriors they 
 With love or sword to lead the way; 
 For ye had cradled heart and hand, 
 The commander hearken'd to your com- 
 mand. 
 
 Ah, weeping mothers, now all is o'er, 
 Ye know your honor and mourn no more : 
 Nor ask ye a name in England's story, 
 Who gave your dearest for her glory. 
 
 Robert Bridges 
 
 THE ABSENT SOLDIER SON 
 
 Lord, I am weeping. As Thou wilt, O Lord, 
 Do with him as Thou wilt ; but O my God, 
 Let him come back to die ! Let not the fowls 
 O' the air defile the body of my child, 
 My own fair child, that when he was a babe, 
 I lift up in my arms and gave to Thee ! 
 Let not his garment, Lord, be vilely parted, 
 Nor the fine linen which these hands have 
 
 spun 
 Fall to the stranger's lot ! Shall the wild bird, 
 That would have pilfered of the ox, this year 
 Disdain the pens and stalls ? Shall her blind 
 
 young 
 That on the fleck and moult of brutish 
 
 beasts 
 Had been too happy, sleep in cloth of gold 
 
 62
 
 Mothers of Men 
 
 Whereof each thread is to this beating heart 
 As a peculiar darling? Lo, the flies 
 Hum o'er him ! lo, a feather from the crow 
 Falls in his parted lips ! Lo, his dead eyes 
 See not the raven ! Lo, the worm, the worm, 
 Creeps from his festering corse ? My God ! 
 my God ! 
 
 • •*••••• 
 
 Lord, Thou doest well. I am content. 
 If Thou have need of him he shall not stay. 
 But as one calleth to a servant, saying 
 "At such a time be with me," so, O Lord, 
 Call him to Thee ! O, bid him not in haste 
 Straight whence he standeth. Let him lay 
 
 aside 
 The soiled tools of labor. Let him wash 
 His hands of blood. Let him array himself 
 Meet for his Lord, pure from the sweat and 
 
 fume 
 
 Of corporal travail ! Lord, if he must die, 
 
 Let him die here. O, take him where Thou 
 gavest ! 
 
 Sidney Dobell 
 
 MOTHER AND SON 
 
 Brightly for him the future smiled, 
 
 The world was all untried ; 
 He had been a boy, almost a child, 
 
 In your household till he died. 
 63
 
 To Mother 
 
 And you saw him young and strong and fair 
 
 But yesterday depart ; 
 And you now know he is lying there 
 
 Shot to death through the heart ! 
 
 Alas, for the step so proud and true 
 That struck on the war-path's track ; 
 
 Alas, to go, as he went from you, 
 
 And to come, as they brought him back ! 
 
 One shining curl from that bright young head, 
 
 Held sacred in your home, 
 Is all that you have to keep in his stead 
 
 In the years that are to come. 
 
 You may claim of his beauty and his youth 
 
 Only this little part — 
 It is not much with which to stanch 
 
 The wound in a mother's heart ! 
 
 It is not much with which to dry 
 
 The bitter tears that flow ; 
 Not much in your empty hands to lie 
 
 As the seasons come and go. 
 
 Yet he has not lived and died in vain, 
 
 For proudly you may say 
 He has left a name without a stain 
 
 For your tears to wash away. 
 64
 
 Mothers of Men 
 
 And evermore shall your life be blest, 
 Though your treasures now are few, 
 Since you gave for your country's good the 
 best 
 God ever gave to you ! 
 
 Phoebe Gary 
 
 MOTHERHOOD 
 
 Mother of Christ long slain, forth glided 
 she, 
 Following the children joyously astir 
 Under the cedars and the olive-tree, 
 
 Pausing to let their laughter float to her. 
 Each voice an echo of a voice more dear, 
 
 She saw a little Christ in every face. 
 When lo! another woman, passing near, 
 Yearned o'er the tender life that filled the 
 place, 
 And Mary sought the woman's hand, and 
 
 said : 
 "I know thee not, yet know thee memory- 
 tossed 
 And what hath led thee here, as I am 
 led — 
 These bring to thee a child beloved and 
 lost." 
 
 "How radiant was my little one! 
 And He was fair, 
 
 65
 
 To Mother 
 
 Yea fairer than the fairest sun, 
 
 And like its rays through amber spun 
 
 His sun-bright hair, 
 Still, I can see it shine and shine ! " 
 "Even so," the woman said, "was mine." 
 
 "His ways were ever darling ways," 
 
 And Mary smiled, — 
 " So soft and clinging ! Glad relays 
 Of love were all his precious days — 
 
 My little child 
 Was like an infinite that gleamed." 
 " Even so was mine," the woman dreamed. 
 
 Then whispered Mary: "Tell me, thou 
 
 Of thine!" And she: 
 "Oh, mine was rosy as a bough 
 Blooming with roses, sent, somehow, 
 
 To bloom for me! 
 His balmy fingers left a thrill 
 Within my breast that warms me still." 
 
 Then gazed she down some wilder, darker 
 
 hour 
 And said, when Mary questioned knowing 
 
 not: 
 "Who art thou, mother of so sweet a 
 
 flower?" 
 "I am the mother of Iscariot." 
 
 Agnes Lee
 
 CHRISTMAS^ 
 MOTHER POEMS
 
 HYMN ON THE NATIVITY 
 
 It was the winter wild, 
 While the heaven-born child 
 
 All meanly wrapt in the rude manger 
 lies ; 
 Nature, in awe of him, 
 Had doffed her gaudy trim, 
 
 With her great Master so to sympathize : 
 It was no season then for her 
 To wanton with the sun, her lusty para- 
 mour. 
 
 Only with speeches fair 
 She wooes the gentle air, 
 
 To hide her guilty front with innocent 
 snow; 
 And on her naked shame, 
 Pollute with sinful blame, 
 
 The saintly veil of maiden-white to throw ; 
 Confounded, that her Maker's eyes 
 Should look so near upon her foul deform- 
 ities. 
 
 But he, her fears to cease, 
 
 Sent down the meek-eyed Peace : 
 
 She, crowned with olive green, came softly 
 sliding 
 
 69
 
 To Mother 
 
 Down through the turning sphere, 
 
 His ready harbinger, 
 
 With turtle wing the amorous clouds di- 
 viding ; 
 
 And, waving wide her myrtle wand, 
 
 She strikes a universal peace through sea 
 and land. 
 
 No war or battle's sound 
 Was heard the world around : 
 
 The idle spear and shield were high up- 
 hung ; 
 The hooked chariot stood 
 Unstained with hostile blood; 
 
 The trumpet spake not to the armed 
 throng ; 
 And kings sat still with awful eye, 
 As if they surely knew their sovereign lord 
 was by. 
 
 But peaceful was the night, 
 Wherein the Prince of Light 
 
 His reign of peace upon the earth be- 
 gan: 
 The winds, with wonder whist, 
 Smoothly the waters kissed, 
 
 Whispering new joys to the mild ocean, 
 Who now hath quite forgot to rave, 
 While birds of calm sit brooding on the 
 charmed wave. 
 70
 
 Christ m as Mother Poems 
 
 The stars, with deep amaze, 
 Stand fixed in steadfast gaze, 
 
 Bending one way their precious influence ; 
 And will not take their flight, 
 For all the morning light, 
 
 Or Lucifer had often warned them thence ; 
 But in their glimmering orbs did glow, 
 Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid 
 them go. 
 
 And though the shady gloom 
 Had given day her room, 
 
 The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, 
 And hid his head for shame, 
 As his inferior flame 
 
 The new-enlightened world no more should 
 need; 
 He saw a greater sun appear 
 Than his bright throne, or burning axle- 
 tree, could bear. 
 
 The shepherds on the lawn, 
 Or ere the point of dawn, 
 
 Sat simply chatting in a rustic row ; 
 Full little thought they then 
 That the mighty Pan 
 
 Was kindly come to live with them below ; 
 Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, 
 Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy 
 keep. 
 
 71
 
 To Mother 
 
 When such music sweet 
 
 Their hearts and ears did greet, 
 
 As never was by mortal fingers strook, 
 Divinely warbled voice 
 Answering the stringed noise, 
 
 As all their souls in blissful rapture took : 
 The air, such pleasure loath to lose, 
 With thousand echoes still prolongs each 
 heavenly close. 
 
 Nature, that heard such sound, 
 
 Beneath the hollow round 
 
 Of Cynthia's seat, the airy region thrill- 
 ing, 
 
 Now was almost won, 
 
 To think her part was done, 
 
 And that her reign had here its last ful- 
 filling ; 
 
 She knew such harmony alone 
 
 Could hold all heaven and earth in happier 
 union. 
 
 At last surrounds their sight 
 A globe of circular light, 
 
 That with long beams the shame-faced 
 night arrayed; 
 The helmed cherubim, 
 And sworded seraphim, 
 
 Are seen in glittering ranks with wings 
 
 displayed, 
 
 72
 
 Christmas Mother Poems 
 
 Harping in loud and solemn quire, 
 With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new- 
 born heir. 
 
 Such music as 't is said 
 Before was never made, 
 
 But when of old the sons of morning sung, 
 While the Creator great 
 His constellations set, 
 
 And the well-balanced world on hinges 
 hung, 
 And cast the dark foundations deep, 
 And bid the weltering waves their oozy chan- 
 nel keep. 
 
 Ring out, ye crystal spheres, 
 Once bless our human ears, 
 
 If ye have power to touch our senses so ; 
 And let your silver chime 
 Move in melodious time ; 
 
 And let the bass of heaven's deep organ 
 blow; 
 And, with your ninefold harmony, 
 Make up full concert to the angelic sym- 
 phony. 
 
 For, if such holy song 
 Enwrap our fancy long, 
 
 Time will run back, and fetch the age of 
 
 gold ; 
 
 73
 
 To Mother 
 
 And speckled Vanity 
 
 Will sicken soon and die, 
 
 And leprous Sin will melt from earthly 
 mould ; 
 
 And Hell itself will pass away, 
 
 And leave her dolorous mansions to the peer- 
 ing day. 
 
 Yea, Truth and Justice then 
 Will down return to men, 
 
 Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories 
 wearing, 
 Mercy will sit between, 
 Throned in celestial sheen, 
 
 With radiant feet the tissued clouds down 
 steering ; 
 And Heaven, as at some festival, 
 W r ill open wide the gates of her high palace 
 hall. 
 
 But wisest Fate says no, 
 This must not yet be so ; 
 
 The babe yet lies in smiling infancy, 
 That on the bitter cross 
 Must redeem our loss, 
 
 So both himself and us to glorify: 
 Yet first, to those ychained in sleep, 
 The wakeful trump of doom must thunder 
 through the deep, 
 
 74
 
 Christmas Mother Poems 
 
 "With such a horrid clang 
 As on Mount Sinai rang, 
 
 While the red fire and smouldering clouds 
 
 outbrake ; 
 The aged earth aghast, 
 With terror of that blast, 
 
 Shall from the surface to the center shake ; 
 When, at the world's last session, 
 The dreadful Judge in middle air shall 
 
 spread his throne. 
 
 And then at last our bliss, 
 Full and perfect is, 
 
 But now begins ; for, from this happy day, 
 The old dragon, under ground, 
 In straiter limits bound, 
 
 Not half so far casts his usurped sway; 
 And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, 
 Swings the scaly horror of his folded tail. 
 
 The oracles are dumb ; 
 No voice or hideous hum 
 
 Runs through the arched roof in words 
 deceiving. 
 Apollo from his shrine 
 Can no more divine, 
 
 With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos 
 leaving. 
 No nightly trance, or breathed spell, 
 Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the pro- 
 phetic cell. 
 
 75
 
 To Mother 
 
 The lonely mountains o'er, 
 And the resounding shore, 
 
 A voice of weeping heard and loud la- 
 ment; 
 From haunted spring and dale, 
 Edged with poplar pale, 
 
 The parting Genius is with sighing sent; 
 With flower-inwoven tresses torn, 
 The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled 
 thickets mourn. , 
 
 In consecrated earth, 
 
 And on the holy hearth, 
 
 The Lars and Lemures mourn with mid- 
 night plaint. 
 
 In urns and altars round, 
 
 A drear and dying sound 
 
 Affrights the Flamens at their service 
 quaint ; 
 
 And the chill marble seems to sweat, 
 
 While each pecidiar power foregoes his 
 wonted seat. 
 
 Peor and Baalim 
 Forsake their temples dim 
 
 With that twice-battered God of Pales- 
 tine; 
 And mooned Ashtaroth, 
 Heaven's queen and mother both, 
 
 Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine ; 
 76
 
 Christmas Mother Poems 
 
 The Libyac Hanamon shrinks his horn ; 
 In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded 
 Thammuz mourn. 
 
 And sullen Moloch, fled, 
 Hath left in shadows dread 
 
 His burning idol all of blackest hue : 
 In vain with cymbals' ring 
 They call the grisly king, 
 
 In dismal dance about' the furnace 
 blue: 
 The brutish gods of Nile as fast, 
 Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste. 
 
 Nor is Osiris seen 
 
 In Memphian grove or green, 
 
 Trampling the unshowered grass with 
 lowings loud; 
 
 Nor can he be at rest 
 
 Within his sacred chest, 
 
 Naught but profoundest hell can be his 
 shroud ; 
 
 In vain with timbreled anthems dark 
 
 The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his wor- 
 shiped ark. 
 
 He feels from Judah's land 
 The dreaded infant's hand, 
 
 The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky 
 
 eyne; 
 
 77
 
 To Mother 
 
 Nor all the gods beside 
 Longer dare abide, 
 
 Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine; 
 Our babe, to show his Godhead true, 
 Can in his swaddling bands control the 
 damned crew. 
 
 So, when the sun in bed, 
 Curtained with cloudy red, 
 
 Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, 
 The flocking shadows pale 
 Troop to the infernal jail, 
 
 Each fettered ghost slips to his several 
 grave ; 
 And the yellow-skirted fays 
 Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their 
 raoon-loved maze. 
 
 But see, the Virgin blest 
 Hath laid her babe to rest; 
 
 Time is our tedious song should here have 
 ending : 
 Heaven's youngest-teemed star 
 Hath fixed her polished car, 
 
 Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp 
 attending ; 
 And all about the courtly stable 
 Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serv- 
 iceable. 
 
 John Milton 
 
 78
 
 Christmas Mother Poems 
 A MOTHER IN EGYPT 
 
 About midnight will I go out into the midst of Egypt : 
 and all the first-born in the land of Egypt shall die, 
 from the first-born of Pharaoh that sitteth upon his throne, 
 even unto the first-born of the maid-servant that is be- 
 hind the mill. 
 
 Is the noise of grief in the palace over the 
 
 river 
 For this silent one at my side? 
 There came a hush in the night, and he rose 
 
 with his hands a-quiver 
 Like lotus petals adrift on the swing of the 
 
 tide. 
 O small cold hands, the day groweth old for 
 
 sleeping! 
 O small still feet, rise up, for the hour is 
 
 late! 
 Rise up, my son, for I hear them mourning 
 
 and weeping 
 In the temple down by the gate! 
 
 Hushed is the face that was wont to brighten 
 with laughter 
 
 When I sang at the mill ; 
 
 And silence unbroken shall greet the sor- 
 rowful dawns hereafter, — 
 
 The house shall be still. 
 
 Voice after voice takes up the burden of 
 wailing — 
 
 79
 
 To Mother 
 
 Do you not heed, do you not hear? — in the 
 high priest's house by the wall. 
 
 But mine is the grief, and their sorrow is all 
 un vailing. 
 
 Will he awake at their call? 
 
 Something I saw of the broad dim wings 
 half folding 
 
 The passionless brow. 
 
 Something I saw of the sword that the shad- 
 owy hands were holding, — 
 
 What matters it now? 
 
 I held you close, dear face, as I knelt and 
 harkeued 
 
 To the wind that cried last night like a soul 
 in sin, 
 
 When the broad bright stars dropped down 
 and the soft sky darkened 
 
 And the presence moved therein. 
 
 I have heard men speak in the market-place 
 
 of the city, 
 Low-voiced, in a breath, 
 Of a God who is stronger than ours, and 
 
 who knows not changing nor pity, 
 Whose anger is death. 
 Nothing I know of the lords of the outland 
 
 races, 
 
 80
 
 Christmas Mother Poems 
 
 But Aiuud is gentle and Hathor the mother 
 
 is mild, 
 And who would descend from the light of 
 
 the Peaceful Places 
 To war on a child ? 
 
 Yet here he lies, with a scarlet pomegranate 
 
 petal 
 Blown down on his cheek. 
 The slow sun sinks to the sand like a shield 
 
 of some burnished metal, 
 But he does not speak. 
 I have called, I have sung, but he neither 
 
 will hear nor waken ; 
 So lightly, so whitely, he lies in the curve 
 
 of my arm, 
 Like a feather let fall from the bird the 
 
 arrow hath taken, — 
 Who could see him, and harm? 
 
 " The swallow flies home to her sleep in the 
 
 eaves of the altar, 
 And the crane to her nest." — 
 So do we sing o'er the mill, and why, ah, 
 
 why should I falter, 
 Since he goes to his rest ? 
 Does he play in their flowers as he played 
 
 among these with his mother? 
 
 81
 
 To Mother 
 
 Do the gods smile downward and love him 
 
 and give him their care? 
 Guard him well, O ye gods, till I come ; lest 
 
 the wrath of that Other 
 Should reach to him there. 
 
 Marjorie L. C. Pickthall 
 
 CHRISTMAS CAROL 
 
 As Joseph was a-waukin', 
 He heard an angel sing, 
 " This night shall be the birthnight 
 Of Christ our heavenly King. 
 
 I 
 
 " His birth-bed shall be neither 
 In housen nor in hall, 
 Nor in the place of paradise, 
 But in the oxen's stall. 
 
 " He neither shall be rocked 
 In silver nor in gold, 
 But in the wooden manger 
 That lieth in the mould. 
 
 " He neither shall be washen 
 
 With white wine nor with red, 
 But with the fair spring water 
 That on you shall be shed. 
 
 82
 
 Christmas Mother Poems 
 
 " He neither shall be clothed 
 In purple nor in pall, 
 But in the fair, white linen 
 That usen babies all." 
 
 As Joseph was a-waukm', 
 
 Thus did the angel sing, 
 And Mary's son at midnight 
 
 Was born to be our King. 
 
 Then be you glad, good people, 
 
 At this time of the year; 
 And light you up your candles, 
 
 For His star it shineth clear. 
 
 Unknown 
 
 REGINA CCELI 
 
 Say, did his sisters wonder what could 
 
 Joseph see 
 In a mild, silent little Maid like thee ? 
 And was it awful in that narrow house, 
 With God for Babe and Spouse? 
 Nay, like thy simple, female sort, each 
 
 one 
 Apt to find Him in Husband and in 
 
 Son, 
 Nothing to thee came strange in this. 
 Thy wonder was but wondrous bliss : 
 83
 
 To Mother 
 
 Wondrous, for, though 
 
 True Virgin lives not but does know, 
 
 (Howbeit none ever yet confess'd) 
 
 That God lies really in her breast, 
 
 Of thine He made His special nest 
 
 And so 
 
 All mothers worship little feet, 
 
 And kiss the very ground they 've trod ; 
 
 But, ah, thy little Baby sweet 
 
 Who was indeed thy God ! 
 
 Coventry Patmore 
 
 CHRIST THE MENDICANT 
 
 A Stranger, to His own 
 He came ; and one alone, 
 Who knew not sin, 
 His lowliness believed, 
 And in her soul conceived 
 To let Him in. 
 
 He naked was, and she 
 
 Of her humanity 
 
 A garment wove : 
 
 He hungered ; and she gave, 
 
 What most His heart did crave, 
 
 A Mother's love. 
 
 John Banister Tabb 
 
 84
 
 Christmas Mother Poems 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAROL 
 
 There 's a song in the air ! 
 
 There 's a star in the sky ! 
 
 There 's a mother's deep prayer 
 
 And a baby's low cry ! 
 And the star rains its fire while the Beauti- 
 ful sing, 
 For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king. 
 
 There 's a tumult of joy 
 
 O'er the wonderful birth, 
 
 For the virgin's sweet boy 
 
 Is the Lord of the earth. 
 Ay ! the star rains its fire and the Beautiful 
 
 sing, 
 For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king. 
 
 In the light of that star 
 
 Lie the ages impearled ; 
 
 And that song from afar 
 
 Has swept over the world. 
 Every hearth is aflame, and the Beautiful sing 
 In the homes of the nations that Jesus is 
 King. 
 
 We rejoice in the light, 
 
 And we echo the song 
 
 That comes down through the night 
 
 From the heavenly throng. 
 
 65
 
 To Mother 
 
 Ay! we shout to the lovely evangel they bring, 
 
 And we greet in his cradle our Saviour and 
 
 King, 
 
 Josiah Gilbert Holland 
 
 A LITTLE CHILD'S HYMN 
 
 Thou that once, on mother's knee, 
 Wast a little one like me, 
 When I wake or go to bed 
 Lay thy hands about my head ; 
 Let me feel thee very near, 
 Jesus Christ, our Saviour dear. 
 
 Be beside me in the light, 
 Close by me through all the night ; 
 Make me gentle, kind, and true, 
 Do what mother bids me do ; 
 Help and cheer me when I fret, 
 And forgive when I forget. 
 
 Once wast thou in cradle laid, 
 Baby bright in manger-shade, 
 With the oxen and the cows, 
 And the lambs outside the house : 
 Now thou art above the sky : 
 Canst thou hear a baby cry ? 
 
 Thou art nearer when we pray, 
 Since thou art so far away ; 
 
 86
 
 Christmas Mother Poems 
 
 Thou my little hymn wilt hear, 
 Jesus Christ, our Saviour dear, 
 Thou that once, on mother's knee, 
 Wast a little one like me. 
 
 Francis Turner Palgrave 
 
 A CAROL 
 
 He came all so still 
 
 Where His mother was, 
 As dew in April 
 
 That falleth on the grass. 
 
 He came all so still 
 
 Where His mother lay, 
 As dew in April 
 
 That falleth on the spray. 
 
 He came all so still 
 
 To His mother's bower, 
 As dew in April 
 
 That falleth on the flower. 
 
 Mother and maiden 
 
 Was never none but she ! 
 
 Well might such a lady 
 God's mother be. 
 
 Unknown.
 
 LULEABIES 

 
 SEA SLUMBER-SONG 
 
 Sea-birds are asleep, 
 The world forgets to weep, 
 Sea murmurs her soft slumber-song 
 On the shadowy sand 
 Of this elfin land ; 
 " I, the Mother mild, 
 Hush thee, O my child, 
 Forget the voices wild ! 
 Isles in elfin light 
 Dream, the rocks and caves, 
 Lull'd by whispering waves, 
 Veil their marbles bright, 
 Foam glimmers faintly white 
 Upon the shelly sand 
 Of this elfin land ; 
 Sea-sound, like violins, 
 To slumber woos and wins, 
 I murmur my soft slumber-song, 
 Leave woes, and wails, and sins, 
 Ocean's shadowy night 
 Breathes good-night, 
 Good-night ! " 
 
 Roden Noel 
 
 91
 
 To Mother 
 
 SWEET AND LOW 
 
 Sweet and low, sweet and low, 
 
 Wind of the western sea, 
 Low, low, breathe and blow, 
 Wind of the western sea ! 
 Over the rolling waters go, 
 Come from the dying moon and blow, 
 Blow him again to me ; 
 While my little one, while my pretty one, 
 sleeps. 
 
 Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, 
 Father will come to thee soon ; 
 
 Rest, rest, on mother's breast, 
 Father will come to thee soon ; 
 
 Father will come to his babe in the nest, 
 
 Silver sails all out of the west 
 Under the silver moon ; 
 Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, 
 
 sleep. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson 
 
 A CRADLE HYMN 
 
 Hush ! my dear, lie still and slumber, 
 Holy angels guard thy bed ! 
 
 Heavenly blessings without number 
 Gently falling on thy head. 
 
 92 

 
 Lullabies 
 
 Sleep, my babe ; thy food and raiment, 
 House and home, thy friends provide ; 
 
 All without thy care or payment : 
 All thy wants are well supplied. 
 
 How much better thou 'rt attended 
 Than the Son of God could be, 
 
 When from heaven He descended 
 And became a child like thee ! 
 
 Soft and easy is thy cradle : 
 
 Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, 
 
 When His birthplace was a stable 
 And His softest bed was hay. 
 
 Blessed babe ! what glorious features — 
 Spotless fair, divinely bright ! 
 
 Must he dwell with brutal creatures ? 
 How could angels bear the sight? 
 
 Was there nothing but a manger 
 
 Cursed sinners could afford 
 To receive the heavenly stranger? 
 
 Did they thus affront their Lord? 
 
 Soft, my child : I did not chide thee, 
 Though my song might sound too hard ; 
 
 'T is thy mother sits beside thee, 
 And her arms shall be thy guard. 
 93
 
 To Mother 
 
 Yet to read the shameful story 
 How the Jews abused their King, 
 
 How they served the Lord of Glory, 
 Makes me angry while I sing. 
 
 See the kinder shepherds round Him, 
 Telling wonders from the sky! 
 
 Where they sought Him, there they found 
 Him, 
 With His Virgin mother by. 
 
 See the lovely babe a-dressing ; 
 
 Lovely infant, how He smiled! 
 When He wept, the mother's blessing 
 
 Soothed and hushed the holy child. 
 
 Lo, He slumbers in His manger, 
 
 Where the horned oxen fed ; 
 Peace, my darling ; here 's no danger, 
 
 Here 's no ox anear thy bed. 
 
 'T was to save thee, child, from dying, 
 Save my dear from burning flame, 
 
 Bitter groans and endless crying, 
 That thy blest Redeemer came. 
 
 May'st thou live to know and fear Him, 
 
 Trust and love Him all thy days; 
 Then go dwell forever near Him, 
 See His face, and sing His praise. 
 
 Isaac Watts 
 94
 
 Lullabies 
 
 CRADLE SONG 
 
 Ere the moon begins to rise 
 
 Or a star to shine, 
 All the blue bells close their eyes — 
 
 So close thine, 
 
 Thine, dear, thine ! 
 
 Birds are sleeping in the nest 
 
 On the swaying bough, 
 Thus, against the mother-breast — 
 So sleep thou, 
 
 Sleep, sleep, thou ! 
 
 Thomas Bailey Aldrich 
 
 SLEEP, BABY, SLEEP 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep! 
 Thy father watches the sheep ; 
 Thy mother is shaking the dream-land tree, 
 And down falls a little dream on thee : 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep ! 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep ! 
 The large stars are the sheep, 
 The little stars are the lambs I guess, 
 The fair moon is the shepherdess : 
 Sleep, baby, sleep ! 
 
 Anonymous 
 95
 
 To Mother 
 
 JAPANESE LULLABY 
 
 Sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings, — 
 Little blue pigeon with velvet eyes ; 
 
 Sleep to the singing of mother-bird swing- 
 ing- 
 Swinging the nest where her little one lies. 
 
 Away out yonder I see a star, — 
 Silvery star with a tinkling song ; 
 
 To the soft dew falling I hear it calling — 
 Calling and tinkling the night along. 
 
 In through the window a moonbeam 
 comes, — 
 Little gold moonbeam with misty wings ; 
 All silently creeping, it asks : "Is he sleep- 
 ing- 
 Sleeping and dreaming while mother 
 sings ? " 
 
 Up from the sea there floats the sob 
 
 Of the waves that are breaking upon the 
 shore, 
 As though they were groaning in anguish, 
 and moaning — 
 Bemoaning the ship that shall come no 
 more. 
 
 96
 
 Lullabies 
 
 But sleep, little pigeon, and fold your 
 wings, — 
 Little blue pigeon with mournful eyes ; 
 Am I not singing ? — see, I am swing- 
 ing- 
 Swinging the nest where my darling 
 lies. 
 
 Eugene Field 
 
 THE COTTAGER'S LULLABY 
 
 The days are cold, the nights are long ; 
 The north-wind sings a doleful song; 
 Then hush again upon my breast, 
 All merry things are now at rest, 
 Save thee, my pretty love! 
 
 The kitten sleeps upon the hearth, 
 The crickets long have ceased their mirth ; 
 There 's nothing stirring in the house 
 Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse ; 
 Then why so busy thou ? 
 
 Nay, start not at that sparkling light ; 
 'T is but the moon that shines so bright 
 On the window-pane bedropped with rain ; 
 Then, little darling ! sleep again, 
 And wake when it is day. 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth 
 97
 
 To Mother 
 
 SWEDISH MOTHER'S LULLABY 
 
 There sitteth a dove, so fair and white, 
 
 All on a lily spray ; 
 And she listeneth how to the Saviour above 
 
 The little children pray. 
 
 Lightly she spreads her friendly wings, 
 And to heaven's gate hath sped, 
 
 And unto the Father in heaven she bears 
 The prayers the children have said. 
 
 And back she conies from heaven's gate, 
 And brings — that dove so mild — 
 From the Father in heaven, who hears her 
 speak, 
 A blessing for every child. 
 
 Frederika Bremer 
 
 THE ROAD TO SLUMBER-LAND 
 
 What is the road to slumber-land and when 
 
 does the baby go ? 
 The road lies straight through mother's arms 
 
 when the sun is sinking low. 
 
 He goes by the drowsy land of nod to the 
 
 music of lullaby, 
 When all wee lambs are safe in the fold, 
 
 under the evening sky.
 
 Lullabies 
 
 A soft little nightgown clean and white; a 
 face washed sweet and fair ; 
 
 A mother brushing the tangles out of the 
 silken, golden hair. 
 
 Two little tired, satiny feet, from shoe and 
 
 stocking free ; 
 Two little palms together clasped at the 
 
 mother's patient knee. 
 
 Some baby words that are drowsily lisped to 
 the tender Shepherd's ear ; 
 
 And a kiss that only a mother can place on 
 the brow of her baby dear. 
 
 A little round head that nestles at last close 
 
 to the mother's breast, 
 And then the lullaby soft and low, singing 
 
 the song: of rest. 
 
 "O 
 
 And closer and closer the blue-veined lids 
 
 are hiding the baby eyes, 
 As over the road to slumber-land the dear 
 
 little traveler hies. 
 
 For this is the way, through mother's arms, 
 
 all little babies go 
 To the beautiful city of slumber-land when 
 the sun is sinking low. 
 
 Mary Dow Brine 
 99
 
 To Mother 
 
 WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD 
 
 Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night 
 
 Sailed off in a wooden shoe, — 
 Sailed on a river of crystal light 
 
 Into a sea of dew. 
 "Where are you going, and what do you 
 wish?" 
 The old moon asked the three. 
 " We have come to fish for the herring fish 
 That live in this beautiful sea ; 
 Nets of silver and gold have we ! " 
 Said Wynken, 
 Blynken, 
 And Nod. 
 
 The old moon laughed and sang a song, 
 
 As they rocked in the wooden shoe ; 
 And the wind that sped them all night 
 long 
 Ruffled the waves of dew. 
 The little stars were the herring fish 
 That lived in that beautiful sea — 
 " Now cast your nets wherever you wish, — 
 Never afeard are we ! " 
 So cried the stars to the fishermen three, 
 Wynken, 
 Blynken, 
 
 And Nod. 
 
 100
 
 Lullabies 
 
 All night long their nets they threw 
 
 To the stars in the twinkling foam, — 
 Then down from the skies came the wooden 
 shoe, 
 Bringing the fishermen home : 
 'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed 
 
 As if it could not be ; 
 And some folk thought 't was a dream they 'd 
 dreamed 
 Of sailing that beautiful sea ; 
 But I shall name you the fishermen 
 three : 
 Wynken, 
 Blynken, 
 And Nod. 
 
 Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, 
 
 And Nod is a little head 
 And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies 
 
 Is a wee one's trundle-bed ; 
 So shut your eyes while Mother sings 
 
 Of wonderful sights that be, 
 And you shall see the beautiful things 
 As you rock in the misty sea 
 Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen 
 three : — 
 Wynken, 
 Blynken, 
 And Nod. 
 
 Eugene Field 
 101
 
 To Mother 
 
 AULD DADDY DARKNESS 
 
 Auld Daddy Darkness creeps f rae his hole, 
 Black as a blackamoor, lolin' as a mole : 
 Stir the fire till it lowes, let the bairnie 
 
 sit, 
 Auld Daddy Darkness is no want it yit. 
 
 See him in the corners hidin' frae the licht, 
 See him at the window gloomin' at the 
 
 nicht ; 
 Turn up the gas licht, close the shutters a', 
 An' Auld Daddy Darkness will flee far 
 
 awa\ 
 
 Awa' to hide the birdie within its cosy nest, 
 Awa' to lap the wee flooers on their mither's 
 
 breast, 
 Awa' to loosen Gaffer Toil frae his daily ca', 
 For Auld Daddy Darkness is kindly to a'. 
 
 He comes when we 're weary to wean's frae 
 
 oor waes, 
 He comes when the bairnies are getting off 
 
 their claes ; 
 To cover them sae cosy, an' bring bonnie 
 
 dreams, 
 So Auld Daddy Darkness is better than he 
 
 seems. 
 
 102
 
 Lullabies 
 
 Steek yer een, my wee tot, ye '11 see Daddy 
 
 then ; 
 He 's in below the bed claes, to cuddle ye 
 
 he 's fain ; 
 Noo nestle to his bosie, sleep and dream yer 
 
 fill, 
 Till Wee Davie Daylicht comes keekin' owre 
 
 the hill. 
 
 James Ferguson 
 
 MOTHER-SONG 
 
 (From " Prince Lucifer") 
 
 White little hands! 
 
 Pink little feet! 
 Dimpled all over, 
 
 Sweet, sweet, sweet! 
 What dost thou wail for? 
 
 The unknown? the unseen? 
 The ills that are coming, 
 
 The joys that have been ? 
 
 Cling to me closer, 
 
 Closer and closer, 
 Till the pain that is purer 
 
 Hath banished the grosser. 
 Drain, drain at the stream, love, 
 
 Thy hunger is freeing, 
 That was born in a dream, love, 
 
 Along with thy being! 
 103
 
 To Mother 
 
 Little fingers that feel 
 
 For their home on my breast, 
 Little lips that appeal 
 
 For their nurture, their rest ! 
 Why, why dost thou weep, clear? 
 
 Nay, stifle thy cries, 
 Till the dew of thy sleep, dear, 
 
 Lies soft on thine eyes. 
 
 Alfred Austin 
 
 SEPHESTIA'S LULLABY 
 
 (From " Menaphon ") 
 
 Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee ; 
 
 When thou art old there 's grief enough for 
 thee. 
 Mother's wag, pretty boy, 
 Father's sorrow, father's joy ; 
 When thy father first did see 
 Such a boy by him and me, 
 Pie was glad, I was woe ; 
 Fortune changed made him so, 
 When he left his pretty boy, 
 Last his sorrow, first his joy. 
 
 Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee ; 
 
 When thou art old there 's grief enough for 
 
 thee. 
 
 Streaming tears that never stint, 
 
 Like pearl-drops from a flint, 
 
 104
 
 Lullabies 
 
 Fell by course from bis eyes, 
 Tbat one another's place supplies ; 
 Thus be grieved in every part, 
 Tears of blood fell from his heart, 
 "When he left his pretty boy, 
 Father's sorrow, father's joy. 
 
 Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my 
 knee ; 
 
 When thou art old there 's grief enough for 
 thee. 
 The wanton smiled, father wept, 
 Mother cried, baby leapt ; 
 More he crowed, more we cried, 
 Nature could not sorrow hide : 
 He must go, he must kiss 
 Child and mother, baby bliss, 
 For he left his pretty boy, 
 Father's sorrow, father's joy. 
 
 Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, 
 
 When thou art old there 's grief enough for 
 
 thee. 
 
 Robert Greene 
 
 CRADLE SONG 
 
 Sleep, sleep, beauty bright, 
 Dreaming in the joys of night ; 
 Sleep, sleep ; in thy sleep 
 Little sorrows sit and weep. 
 
 105
 
 To Mother 
 
 Sweet babe, in thy face 
 Soft desires I can trace, 
 Secret joys and secret smiles, 
 Little pretty infant wiles. 
 
 As thy softest limbs I feel 
 Smiles as of the morning steal 
 O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast 
 Where thy little heart doth rest. 
 
 O the cunning wiles that creep 
 In thy little heart asleep! 
 When thy little heart doth wake, 
 Then the dreadful night shall break. 
 
 William Blake 
 
 LULLABY OF AN INFANT CHIEF 
 
 O, hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a 
 
 knight, 
 Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright ; 
 The woods and the glens, from the towers 
 
 which we see, 
 They are all belonging, dear babie, to thee. 
 O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo. 
 
 O, fear not the bugle, though loudly it 
 blows, 
 
 It calls but the warders that guard thy re- 
 pose; 
 
 106
 
 Lullabies 
 
 Their bows would be bended, their blades 
 
 would be red, 
 Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy 
 
 bed. 
 O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo. 
 
 O, hush thee, my babie, the time soon will 
 
 come, 
 When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet 
 
 and drum ; 
 Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while 
 
 you may, 
 For strife comes with manhood, and waking 
 
 with day. 
 O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo. 
 
 Walter Scott
 
 JOYomOTHERHGDD
 
 THE FIRSTBORN 
 
 So fair, so dear, so warm upon my bosom, 
 And in my hands the little rosy feet. 
 Sleep on, my little bird, my lamb, my blos- 
 som ; 
 Sleep on, sleep on, my sweet. 
 
 What is it God hath given me to cherish, 
 This living, moving wonder which is mine — 
 Mine only ? Leave it with me or I perish, 
 Dear Lord of love divine. 
 
 Dear Lord, 't is wonderful beyond all won- 
 der, 
 This tender miracle vouchsafed to me, 
 One with myself, yet just as far asunder 
 That I myself may see. 
 
 Flesh of my flesh, and yet so subtly link- 
 ing 
 
 New selfs with old, all things that I have 
 been 
 
 With present joys beyond my former think- 
 ing 
 And future things unseen. 
 
 in
 
 To Mother 
 
 Thei'e life began, and here it links with 
 
 heaven, 
 The golden chain of years scarce dipped 
 
 adown 
 From birth, ere once again a hold is given 
 And nearer to God's Throne. 
 
 Seen, held in arms and clasped around so 
 
 tightly, — 
 My love, my bird, I will not let thee go. 
 Yet soon the little rosy feet must lightly 
 Go pattering to and fro. 
 
 Mine, Lord, all mine Thy gift and loving 
 
 token. 
 Mine — yes or no, unseen its soul divine? 
 Mine by the chain of love with links un- 
 broken, 
 Dear Saviour, Thine and mine. 
 
 John Arthur Goodchild 
 
 BABY-LAND 
 
 "How many miles to Baby-Land?" 
 " Any one can tell ; 
 Up one flight, 
 To the right ; 
 Please to ring the bell." 
 
 112
 
 The Joy of Motherhood 
 
 " What can you see in Baby -Land ? " 
 " Little folks in white — 
 Downy heads, 
 Cradle-beds, 
 Faces pure and bright ! " 
 
 " What do they do in Baby-Land ? " 
 " Dream and wake and play, 
 Laugh and crow, 
 Shout and grow ; 
 Jolly times have they ! " 
 
 " What do they say in Baby-Land ? " 
 " Why, the oddest things ; 
 Might as well 
 Try to tell 
 What a birdie sings ! " 
 
 « Who is the Queen of Baby-Land ? " 
 " Mother, kind and sweet ; 
 And her love, 
 Born above, 
 Guides the little feet." 
 
 George Cooper 
 
 MOTHER'S SONG 
 
 My heart is like a fountain true 
 That flows and flows with love to you. 
 As chirps the lark unto the tree 
 So chirps my pretty babe to me. 
 And it's O ! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby. 
 
 113
 
 To Mother 
 
 There 's not a rose where'er I seek, 
 
 As comely as my baby's cheek. 
 
 There 's not a comb of honey-bee, 
 
 So full of sweets as babe to me. 
 
 And it 's ! sweet, sweet ! and a lullaby. 
 
 There's not a star that shines on high, 
 Is brighter than my baby's eye. 
 There 's not a boat upon the sea, 
 Can dance as baby does to me. 
 And it 's O ! sweet, sweet ! and a lullaby. 
 
 No silk was ever spun so fine 
 
 As is the hair of baby mine. 
 
 My baby smells more sweet to me 
 
 Than smells in spring the elder tree. 
 
 And it 's O ! sweet, sweet ! and a lullaby. 
 
 A little fish swims in the well, 
 
 So in my heart does baby dwell. 
 
 A little flower blows on the tree, 
 
 My baby is the flower to me, 
 
 And it 's O ! sweet, sweet ! and a lullaby. 
 
 The Queen has sceptre, crown and ball, 
 You are my sceptre, crown and all. 
 For all her robes of royal silk, 
 More fair your skin, as white as milk. 
 And it 's O ! sweet, sweet ! and a lullaby. 
 
 114
 
 The Joy of Motherhood 
 
 Ten thousand parks where deer do run, 
 Ten thousand roses in the sun, 
 Ten thousand pearls beneath the sea, 
 My babe more precious is to me. 
 And it 's O ! sweet, sweet ! and a lullaby. 
 
 Unhiotvn 
 
 CRADLE SONG 
 
 Sleep, little baby of mine, 
 Night and the darkness are near, 
 But Jesus looks down 
 Through the shadows that frown, 
 And baby has nothing to fear. 
 
 Shut, little sleepy blue eyes ; 
 Dear little head, be at rest ; 
 Jesus, like you, 
 Was a baby once, too, 
 And slept on His own mother's 
 breast. 
 
 Sleep, little baby of mine, 
 Soft on your pillow so white ; 
 Jesus is here 
 To watch over you, dear, 
 And nothing can harm you to- 
 night. 
 
 115
 
 To Mother 
 
 O, little darling of mine, 
 
 What can you know of the bliss, 
 
 The comfort I keep, 
 
 Awake and asleep, 
 
 Because I am certain of this? 
 
 Unknown 
 
 CRADLE SONG 
 
 (From " Bitter-Sweet ") 
 
 What is the little one thinking about ? 
 Very wonderful things, no doubt ! 
 Unwritten history ! 
 Unf athomed mystery ! 
 Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks, 
 And chuckles and crows, and nods and 
 
 winks, 
 As if his head were as full of kinks 
 And curious riddles as any sphinx ! 
 Warped by colic, and wet by tears, 
 Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears, 
 Our little nephew will lose two years ; 
 And he '11 never know 
 Where the summers go ; — 
 He need not laugh, for he '11 find it so ! 
 
 Who can tell what a baby thinks ? 
 Who can follow the gossamer links 
 By which the mannikin feels his way 
 116
 
 The Joy of Motherhood 
 
 Out from the shore of the great unknown, 
 Blind, and wailing, and alone, 
 
 Into the light of day ? — 
 Out from the shore of the unknown sea, 
 Tossing in pitiful agony ; — 
 Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, 
 Specked with the barks of little souls, — 
 Barks that were launched on the other side, 
 And slipped from Heaven on an ebbing 
 tide! 
 
 What does he think of his mother's eyes ? 
 What does he think of his mother's hair ? 
 
 What of the cradle-roof that flies 
 Forward and backward through the air? 
 
 What does he think of his mother's breast, 
 Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, 
 Seeking it ever with fresh delight, — 
 
 Cup of his life, and couch of his rest ? 
 What does he think when her quick embrace 
 Presses his hand and buries his face 
 Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell 
 With a tenderness she can never tell, 
 
 Though she murmur the words 
 
 Of all the birds, — 
 Words she has learned to murmur well ? 
 
 Now he thinks he '11 go to sleep ! 
 
 I can see the shadow creep 
 
 Over his eyes, in soft eclipse, 
 
 Over his brow, and over his lips, 
 
 Out to his little finger-tips ! 
 117
 
 To Mother 
 
 Softly sinking, down he goes ! 
 Down he goes ! down he goes ! 
 See ! he is hushed in sweet repose ! 
 
 Josiah Gilbert Holland 
 
 A SONG OF TWILIGHT 
 
 Oh, to come home once more, when the dusk 
 is falling, 
 To see the nursery lighted and the chil- 
 dren's table spread ; 
 " Mother, mother, mother ! " the eager voices 
 calling, 
 " The baby was so sleepy that he had to go 
 to bed!" 
 
 Oh, to come home once more, and see the 
 smiling faces, 
 Dark head, bright head, clustered at the 
 pane ; 
 Much the years have taken, when the heart 
 its path retraces, 
 But until time is not for me, the image 
 will remain. 
 
 Men and women now they are, standing 
 straight and steady, 
 Grave heart, gay heart, fit for life's em- 
 prise ; 
 
 118
 
 Tlie Joy of Motherhood 
 
 Shoulder set to shoulder, how should they be 
 but ready ! 
 The future shines before them with the 
 light of their own eyes. 
 
 Still each answers to my call ; no good has 
 been denied me, 
 My burdens have been fitted to the little 
 strength that 's mine, 
 Beauty, pride and peace have walked by day 
 beside me, 
 The evening closes gently in, and how 
 can I repine ? 
 
 But oh, to see once more, when the early dusk 
 is falling ; 
 The nursery windows glowing and the 
 children's table spread; 
 " Mother, mother, mother ! " the high child- 
 voices calling, 
 " He could n't stay awake for you, he had 
 to go to bed ! " 
 
 Unknown 
 
 TUCKING THE BABY IN 
 
 The dark-fringed eyelids slowly close 
 On eyes serene and deep ; 
 
 Upon my breast my own sweet child . 
 
 Has gently dropped to sleep ; 
 
 119
 
 To Mother 
 
 I kiss his soft and dimpled cheek, 
 
 I kiss his rounded chin, 
 Then lay him on his little bed, 
 
 And tuck my baby in. 
 
 How fair and innocent he lies ; 
 
 Like some small angel strayed, 
 His face still warmed by God's own smile, 
 
 That slumbers unafraid ; 
 Or like some new embodied soul, 
 
 Still pure from taint of sin — 
 My thoughts are reverent as I stoop 
 
 To tuck my baby in. 
 
 What toil must stain these tiny hands 
 
 That now lie still and white? 
 What shadows creep across the face 
 
 That shines with morning light? 
 These wee pink shoeless feet — how far 
 
 Shall go their lengthening tread, 
 When they no longer cuddled close 
 
 May rest upon this bed ? 
 
 what am I that I should train 
 
 An angel for the skies ; 
 Or mix the potent draught that feeds 
 The soul within these eyes? 
 
 1 reach him up to the sinless Hands 
 
 Before his cares begin, — 
 
 Great Father, with Thy folds of love, 
 
 O tuck my baby in. 
 
 Curtis May 
 120
 
 The Joy of Motherhood 
 
 MOTHER AND CHILD 
 
 The wind blew wide the casement, and 
 
 within — 
 It was the loveliest picture ! — a sweet child 
 Lay in its mother's arms, and drew its life, 
 In pauses, from the fountain, — the white 
 
 round 
 Part shaded by loose tresses, soft and dark, 
 Concealing, but still showing, the fair realm 
 Of so much rapture, as green shadowing 
 
 trees 
 With beauty shroud the brooklet. The red 
 
 lips 
 Were parted, and the cheek upon the breast 
 Lay close, and, like the young leaf of the 
 
 flower, 
 Wore the same color, rich and warm and 
 
 fresh : — 
 And such alone are beautiful. Its eye, 
 A full blue gem, most exquisitely set, 
 Looked archly on its world, — the little 
 
 imp, 
 As if it knew even then that such a wreath 
 Were not for all ; and with its playful hands 
 It drew aside the robe that hid its realm, 
 And peeped and laughed aloud, and so it 
 
 laid 
 Its head on the shrine of such pure joys, 
 
 121
 
 To Mother 
 
 And, laughing, slept. And while it slept, the 
 
 tears 
 Of the sweet mother fell upon its cheek, — 
 Tears such as fall from April skies, and 
 
 bring 
 The sunlight after. They were tears of joy ; 
 And the true heart of that young mother 
 
 then 
 Grew lighter, and she sang unconsciously 
 The silliest ballad-song that ever yet 
 Subdued the nursery's voices, and brought 
 
 sleep 
 To fold her sabbath wings above its couch. 
 William Gilmore Simms 
 
 MATERNITY 
 
 Within the crib that stands beside my bed 
 A little form in sweet abandon lies 
 And as I bend above with misty eyes 
 
 I know how Mary's heart was comforted. 
 
 O world of Mothers ! blest are we who know 
 The ecstasy — the deep God-given 
 
 thrill 
 That Mary felt when all the earth was 
 still 
 In the Judean starlight lon£ a<ro ! 
 
 Anne P. L. Field 
 
 122
 
 The Joy of Motherhood 
 
 THE LITTLE BLACK BOY 
 
 My mother bore me in the southern wild, 
 And I am black, but O, my soul is white 3 
 
 White as an angel is the English child, 
 But I am black, as if bereaved of light. 
 
 My mother taught me underneath a tree, 
 And, sitting down before the heat of day, 
 
 She took me on her lap and kissed me, 
 And, pointing to the East, began to say: 
 
 " Look at the rising sun ; there God does live, 
 
 And gives His light, and gives His heat 
 
 away, 
 
 And flowers and trees and beasts and men 
 
 receive 
 
 Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday. 
 
 " And we are put on earth a little space, 
 That we may learn to bear the beams of 
 love; 
 
 And these black bodies and this sunburnt face 
 Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove. 
 
 " For when our souls have learn'd the heat 
 to bear, 
 The cloud will vanish, when we shall hear 
 His voice, 
 
 123
 
 To Mother 
 
 Saying ' Come out from the grove, my love 
 and care, 
 And round my golden tent like lambs re- 
 joice. 
 
 Thus did my mother say, and kissed me, 
 And thus I say to little English boy. 
 
 When I from black and he from white cloud 
 free, 
 And round the tent of God like lambs we 
 
 I '11 shade him from the heat till he can bear 
 
 To lean in joy upon our Father's knee ; 
 And then I'll stand and stroke his silver 
 hair, 
 And be like him, and he will then love me. 
 
 William Blake 
 
 MY BIRD 
 
 (Lines written at Burmah in joy for a first-born) 
 
 Ere last year's morn had left the sky, 
 A birdling sought my Indian nest ; 
 
 And folded, oh, so lovingly, 
 
 Her tiny wings upon my breast. 
 
 From morn till evening's purple tinge, 
 In winsome helplessness she lies; 
 
 Two rosy leaves with a silken fringe, 
 Shut softly on her starry eyes. 
 124
 
 The Joy of Motherhood 
 
 There 's not in Ind a lovelier bird; 
 
 Broad earth owns not a happier nest; 
 O God, thou hast a fountain stirred, 
 
 Whose waters never more shall rest. 
 
 This beautiful, mysterious thing 1 , 
 This seeming visitant from heaven, 
 
 This bird with the immortal wing, 
 To me, to me, thy hand has given. 
 
 The pulse first caught its tiny stroke, 
 
 The blood its crimson hue, from miue; — 
 
 This life which I have dared invoke, 
 Henceforth, is parallel with thine. 
 
 A silent awe is in my room, 
 
 I tremble with delicious fear; 
 The future, with its light and gloom, 
 
 Time and eternity are here. 
 
 Doubts, hopes, in eager tumult rise, 
 Hear, O my God, one earnest prayer: 
 
 Room for my bird in Paradise, 
 
 And give her angel-plumage there. 
 
 En dly C Judson 
 
 CHILDREN 
 
 Children are what the mothers are. 
 No fondest father's fondest care 
 125
 
 To Mother 
 
 Can fashion so the infant heart 
 As those creative beams that dart, 
 With all their hopes and fears, upon 
 The cradle of a sleeping son. 
 
 His startled eyes with wonder see 
 A father near him on his knee, 
 Who wishes all the while to trace 
 The mother in his future face; 
 But 't is to her alone uprise 
 His waking arms ; to her those eyes 
 Open with joy and not surprise. 
 
 Walter Savage Landor 
 
 MY LITTLE DEAR 
 
 My little dear, so fast asleep, 
 Whose arms about me cling, 
 
 What kisses shall she have to keep, 
 While she is slumbering? 
 
 Upon her golden baby-hair, 
 
 The golden dreams I '11 kiss 
 Which Life spread through my morning 
 fair, 
 
 And I have saved, for this. 
 
 Upon her baby eyes I '11 press 
 
 The kiss Love gave to me, 
 When his great joy and loveliness 
 
 Made all things fair to see. 
 
 126
 
 The Joy of Motherhood 
 
 And ou her lips, with smiles astir, 
 
 Ah me, what prayer of old 
 May now be kissed to comfort her, 
 
 Should Love or Life grow cold. 
 
 Dollie Radford 
 
 THE IMMORTALITY OF LOVE 
 
 They sin who tell us love can die : 
 With life all other passions fly, 
 
 All others are but vanity ; 
 In heaven ambition cannot dwell, 
 Nor avarice in the vaults of hell ; 
 Earthly these passions of the earth, 
 They perish where they have their 
 birth ; 
 But love is indestructible; 
 Its holy flame for ever burnetii, 
 From heaven it came, to heaven return- 
 eth. 
 Too oft on earth a troubled guest, 
 At times deceived, at times op- 
 press'd, 
 It here is tried and purified, 
 Then hath in heaven its perfect rest : 
 It soweth here with toil and care, 
 But the harvest-time of love is there. 
 Oh ! when a mother meets on high 
 The babe she lost in infancy,
 
 To Mother 
 
 Hath she not then, for pains and fears, 
 The day of woe, the watchful night, 
 
 For all her sorrow, all her tears, 
 An over-payment of delight? 
 
 Robert Southey 
 
 "THAT THEY ALL MAY BE ONE" 
 
 Whene'er there comes a little child, 
 My darling comes with him ; 
 Whene'er I hear a birdie wild 
 Who sings his merry whim, 
 Mine sings with him: 
 If a low strain of music sails 
 Among melodious hills and dales, 
 When a white lamb or kitten leaps, 
 Or star, or vernal flower peeps, 
 When rainbow dews are pulsing joy, 
 Or sunny waves, or leaflets toy, 
 Then he who sleeps 
 Softly wakes within my heart ; 
 With a kiss from him I start ; 
 He lays hi3 head upon my breast, 
 Tho' I may not see my guest, 
 Dear bosom-guest! 
 In all that 's pure and fair and good, 
 I feel the spring-time of thy blood, 
 Hear thy whisper'd accents flow 
 To lighten woe, 
 
 128
 
 The Joy of Motherhood 
 
 Feel them blend, 
 Although I fail to comprehend. 
 And if one woundeth with harsh word, 
 Or deed, a child, or beast, or bird, 
 It seems to strike weak Innocence 
 Through him, who hath for his defence 
 Thunder of the All-loving Sire, 
 And mine, to whom He gave the fire. 
 
 Roden Noel
 
 OLD-FASHIONED 
 MOTHER. POEMS 
 
 f AsmMZM
 
 MY MOTHER 
 
 Who fed me from her gentle breast, 
 And hushed me in her arms to rest, 
 And on my cheek sweet kisses pressed? 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 When sleep forsook my open eye, 
 Who was it sang sweet lullaby, 
 And rocked me that I should not cry? 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 Who sat and watched my infant head, 
 When sleeping on my cradle bed, 
 And tears of sweet affection shed? 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 When pain and sickness made me cry, 
 Who gazed upon my heavy eye, 
 And wept for fear that I should die? 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 Who dressed my doll in clothes so gay, 
 And taught me pretty how to play, 
 And minded all I had to say? 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 133
 
 To Mother 
 
 Who ran to help me when I fell, 
 And would some pretty story tell, 
 Or kiss the place to make it well? 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 Who taught my infant lips to pray, 
 And love God's holy book and day, 
 And walk in wisdom's Pleasant way? 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 And can I ever cease to be, 
 Affectionate and kind to thee, 
 Who was so very kind to me ? 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 Ah ! no, the thought I cannot bear, 
 And if God please my life to spare, 
 I hope I shall reward thy care, 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 When thou art feeble, old, and gray, 
 My healthy arms shall be thy stay, 
 And I will soothe thy pains away, 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 And when I see thee hang thy head, 
 'T will be my turn to watch thy bed, 
 And tears of sweet affection shed, 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 334
 
 Old-Fashioned Mother Poems 
 
 For God, who lives above the skies, 
 Would look with vengeance in his eyes, 
 If I should ever dare despise 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 Jane Taylor 
 
 HALF-WAKING 
 
 I thought it was the little bed 
 
 I slept in long ago ; 
 A straight white curtain at the head, 
 
 And two smooth knobs below. 
 
 I thought I saw the nursery fire, 
 
 And in a chair well-known 
 My mother sat, and did not tire 
 
 With reading all alone. 
 
 If I should make the slightest sound 
 
 To show that I 'm awake, 
 She 'd rise, and lap the blankets round, 
 
 My pillow softly shake ; 
 
 Kiss me and turn my face to see 
 
 The shadows on the wall, 
 And then sing "Rousseau's Dream" to 
 me 
 
 Till fast asleep I fall. 
 
 135
 
 To Mother 
 
 But this is not my little bed; 
 
 That time is far away: 
 With strangers now I live instead, 
 
 From dreary day to day. 
 
 William Allingham 
 
 TO A CHILD EMBRACING HIS 
 MOTHER 
 
 Love thy mother, little one ! 
 
 Kiss and clasp her neck again — 
 Hereafter she may have a son 
 
 Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain. 
 Love thy mother, little one! 
 
 Gaze upon her living eyes, 
 
 And mirror back her love for thee, — 
 Hereafter thou mayst shudder sighs 
 
 To meet them when they cannot see. 
 Gaze upon her living eyes! 
 
 Press her lips the while they glow 
 
 With love that they have often told, — 
 
 Hereafter thou mayst press in woe, 
 And kiss them till thine own are cold. 
 
 Press her lips the while they glow! 
 
 Oh, revere her raven hair ! 
 
 Although it be not silver-gray — 
 136
 
 Old-Fashioned Mother Poems 
 
 Too early Death, led on by Care, 
 
 May snatch save one dear lock away. 
 Oh, revere her raven hair! 
 
 Pray for her at eve and morn, 
 
 That Heaven may long the stroke defer ; — 
 For thou mayst live the hour forlorn 
 
 When thou wilt ask to die with her. 
 Pray for her at eve and morn ! 
 
 Thomas Hood 
 
 WISHING 
 
 King-Ting! I wish I were a Primrose, 
 A bright yellow Primrose blowing in the 
 spring ! 
 The stooping boughs above me, 
 The wandering bee to love me, 
 The fern and moss to creep across, 
 And the Elm-tree for our king ! 
 
 Nay — stay! I wish I were an Elm-tree, 
 A great lofty Elm-tree, with green leaves 
 
 g a y ! 
 
 The winds would set them dancing, 
 The sun and moonshine glance in, 
 The birds would house among the boughs, 
 And sweetly sing! 
 
 137
 
 To Mother 
 
 Oh — no! I wish I were a Robin. 
 A Robin or a little Wren, everywhere to go; 
 Through forest, field or garden, 
 And ask no leave or pardon, 
 Till winter comes with icy thumbs 
 To ruffle up our wing ! 
 
 Well — tell ! Where should I fly to, 
 Where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell ? 
 Before a day was over, 
 Home comes the rover, 
 For mother's kiss, — sweeter this 
 Than any other thing ! 
 
 William Allingham 
 
 THE VISIT 
 
 "Do you go to Norton, mamma, this next 
 week? 
 I wish you had leisure to listen to me, 
 For when you are writing I don't like to 
 speak, 
 And that letter will never be finished, I 
 see." 
 
 " I will lay down my pen, then, my dear little 
 child, 
 For I see you have minded the lesson we 
 read ; 
 
 138
 
 Old-F ashioned Mother Poems 
 
 Come, jump on my knee here," mamma said 
 and smiled, 
 As she kissed the soft hair on her Emily's 
 head. 
 
 " Yes, to Norton we are going, and what 
 shall I say 
 To your two little playmates there, Har- 
 riet and Ann? 
 Shall I say you can read now as well as can 
 play, 
 And can pull out your needle as fast as 
 they can?" 
 
 " No, mamma, that was not what I wished 
 you to hear ! 
 And I fear you won't like what I 'm going 
 to say ; 
 Stop, put down your head, let me speak in 
 your ear, 
 For to whisper, I think, is by much the 
 best way." 
 
 She asked to be taken her young friends to 
 see, 
 And to show them her work-box, her dolls, 
 and her toys ; 
 She said she would try such a good child to be, 
 And be well-bred and kind to the two 
 little boys. 
 
 139
 
 To Mother 
 
 She said if they teased her, or for her dolls 
 cried, 
 She would not forget she was older than 
 they, 
 If as boys they were rude, she would try 
 not to chide, 
 But would put up the dolls until they 
 went away. 
 
 From Ann she could learn how her bracelets 
 to string, 
 And with Harriet would practice doll's 
 bonnets to make; 
 She would give to the latter her favorite 
 ring, 
 And for dear little Ann, that Dutch doll 
 she would take. 
 
 "Then pray, dear mamma, pray do not say 
 no ; 
 You are always so kind, do indulge me in 
 this: 
 I think if you like it, papa '11 let me go, 
 And I shall be so good, I '11 do nothing 
 amiss." 
 
 Papa was consulted, and though it was 
 far, 
 Little Emily's goodness and worth gained 
 the day, 
 
 140
 
 Old-Fashioned Mother Poems 
 
 She was promised to go when the next week 
 came round, 
 And see — there is the carriage now driv- 
 ing away. 
 
 Rhymes for the Nursery 
 
 THE BABY 
 
 What is the pretty little thing 
 That nurse so carefully doth bring, 
 And round its head her apron fling ? 
 
 A baby. 
 
 Oh, dear, how very soft its cheek: 
 Why, nurse, I cannot make it speak, 
 And it can't walk, it is so weak, 
 
 Poor baby. 
 
 Here take a bite, you little dear, 
 I 've got some cake and sweetmeats here, 
 'T is very nice, you need not fear, 
 
 You baby. 
 
 Oh, I 'm afraid that it will die, 
 Why can't it eat as well as I, 
 And jump, and talk? do let it try, 
 
 Poor baby. 
 
 Why, you were once a baby too, 
 And could not jump, as now you do, 
 But good mamma took care of you, 
 
 Like baby. 
 141
 
 To Mother 
 
 And then she taught your pretty feet 
 To pat along the carpet neat, 
 And called papa to come and meet 
 
 His baby. 
 
 Oh, good mamma, to take such care, 
 And no kind pains and trouble spare, 
 To feed and nurse you when you were 
 
 A baby. 
 
 Jane and Ann Taylor 
 
 GETTING UP 
 
 Baby, baby, ope your eye, 
 For the sun is in the sky, 
 And he 's peeping once again 
 Through the frosty window pane ; 
 Little baby, do not keep 
 Any longer fast asleep. 
 
 There, now, sit in mother's lap, 
 
 That she may untie your cap, 
 
 For the little strings have got 
 
 Twisted into such a knot; 
 
 Ah ! for shame, — you 've been at play 
 
 With the bobbin, as you lay. 
 
 There it comes, — now let me see 
 Where your petticoats can be ; 
 142
 
 Old-Fashioned Mother Poems 
 
 Oh, — they 're in the window seat, 
 Folded very smooth and neat : 
 When my baby older grows 
 She shall double up her clothes. 
 
 Now one pretty little kiss, 
 For dressing you as neat as this, 
 And before we go downstairs, 
 Don't forget to say your pray'rs, 
 For 't is God who loves to keep 
 Little babies in their sleep. 
 
 Jane Taylor 
 
 MAMMA! 
 
 (From "The Floweret") 
 
 My own mamma! 
 
 My dear mamma ! 
 How happy I shall be, 
 
 To-morrow night, 
 
 At candle-light, 
 When she comes home to me. 
 
 To-morrow night, 
 At candle-light, — 
 
 Yes, that 's the time, they say, 
 That she '11 be here, 
 Our mother dear, — 
 
 How long she 's been away. 
 143
 
 To Mother 
 
 'T is just a week, 
 
 Since on my cheek 
 She pressed the parting kiss ; 
 
 It seems like two, — 
 
 I never knew 
 So long a week as this. 
 
 My tangled hair 
 
 She smoothed with care, 
 With water bathed my brow ; 
 
 And all with such 
 
 A gentle touch, — 
 There 's none to do so now. 
 
 I cannot play 
 
 When she 's away ; 
 There 's none to laugh with me 5 
 
 And much I miss 
 
 The tender kiss, — 
 The seat upon her knee. 
 
 When up to bed 
 
 I 'm sorrowing led, 
 I linger on the stairs ; 
 
 I lie and weep — 
 
 I cannot sleep — 
 I scarce can say my prayers. 
 
 144
 
 Old-Fashioned Mother Poems 
 
 But she will come, 
 She '11 be at home 
 To-mcrrow night, and then 
 I hope that she 
 Will never be 
 So long away again. 
 
 Anna M. Wells 
 
 TO MY MOTHER 
 
 They tell us of an Indian tree 
 
 Which howsoe'er the sun and sky 
 May tempt its boughs to wander free, 
 
 And shoot and blossom, wide and high, 
 Far better loves to bend its arms 
 
 Downward again to that dear earth 
 From which the life, that fills and warms 
 
 Its grateful being, first had birth. 
 'T is thus, though wooed by flattering friends, 
 
 And fed with fame (if fame it be), 
 This heart, my own dear mother, bends, 
 
 With love's true instinct, back to thee ! 
 
 Thomas Moore 
 
 CUDDLE DOON 
 
 The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht 
 Wi' muckle faught an' din ; 
 " Oh try and sleep, ye waukrife rogues, 
 Your faither 's comin' in." 
 145
 
 To Mother 
 
 They never heed a word I speak ; 
 
 I try to gie a froon, 
 But aye I hap them up an' cry, 
 " Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon." 
 
 Wee Jamie wi' the curly heid — 
 He aye sleeps next the wa' — 
 
 Bangs up an' cries, " I want a piece ;" 
 The rascal starts them a'. 
 
 I rin and fetch them pieces, drinks, 
 They stop awee the soun', 
 
 Then draw the blankets up an' cry, 
 " Noo, weanies, cuddle doon." 
 
 But, ere five minutes gang, wee Rab 
 Cries out, frae 'neath the claes, 
 " Mither, mak' Tarn gie ower at ance, 
 He 's kittlin' wi' his taes." 
 The mischief 's in that Tarn for tricks, 
 
 He 'd bother half the toon ; 
 But aye I hap them up and cry, 
 " Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon." 
 
 At length they hear their father's fit, 
 
 An', as he steeks the door, 
 They turn their faces to the wa', 
 While Tarn pretends to snore. 
 " Hae a' the weans been gude ? " he asks, 
 
 As he pits aff his shoon ; 
 " The bairnies, John, are in their beds, 
 An' lang since cuddled doon." 
 146
 
 Old-Fashioned Mother Poems 
 
 An' just afore we bed oorsels, 
 We look at our wee lambs ; 
 Tarn has his airm roun' wee Rab's 
 neck, 
 And Rab his airm round Tarn's. 
 I lift wee Jamie up the bed, 
 
 An' as I straik each croon, 
 I whisper, till my heart fills up, 
 " Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon." 
 
 The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht 
 
 Wi' mirth that 's dear to me ; 
 But soon the big warl's cark an' care 
 
 Will quaten doon their glee. 
 Yet, come what will to ilka ane, 
 
 May He who rules aboon 
 Aye whisper, though their pows be 
 
 bald, 
 " Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon." 
 
 Alexander Anderson 
 
 THE BABY 
 
 Safe sleeping on its mother's breast 
 The smiling babe appears, 
 
 Now sweetly sinking into rest ; 
 Now washed in sudden tears: 
 
 Hush, hush, my little baby dear, 
 
 There 's nobody to hurt you here. 
 
 147
 
 To Mother 
 
 Without a mother's tender care, 
 
 The little thing must die, 
 Its chubby hands too feeble are 
 
 One service to supply ; 
 And not a tittle does it know 
 What kind of world 't is come into. 
 
 The lambs sport gayly on the grass 
 When scarcely born a day ; 
 
 The foal, beside its mother ass, 
 Trots frolicksome away, 
 
 No other creature, tame or wild, 
 
 Is half so helpless as a child. 
 
 To nurse the Dolly, gayly drest, 
 And stroke its flaxen hair, 
 
 Or ring the coral at its waist, 
 With silver bells so fair, 
 
 Is all the little creature can, 
 
 That is so soon to be a man. 
 
 Full many a summer's sun must glow 
 
 And lighten up the skies, 
 Before its tender limbs can grow 
 
 To anything of size ; 
 And all the while the mother's eye 
 Must every little want supply. 
 
 Then surely, when each little limb 
 Shall grow to healthy size, 
 148
 
 Old-Fashioned Mother Poems 
 
 And youth and manhood strengthen him 
 
 For toil and enterprise, 
 His mother's kindness is a debt, 
 He never, never will forget. 
 
 Jane Taylor 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT 
 
 Little baby, lay your head 
 On your pretty cradle-bed ; 
 Shut your eye-peeps now the day 
 And the light are gone away; 
 All the clothes are tucked in tieht : 
 Little baby dear, good-night. 
 
 Yes, my darling, well I know 
 How the bitter wind doth blow ; 
 And the winter's snow and rain 
 Patter on the window-pane : 
 But they cannot come in here, 
 To my little baby dear ; 
 
 For the window shutteth fast, 
 Till the stormy night is past ; 
 And the curtains warm are spread 
 Round about her cradle bed: 
 So till morning shineth bright 
 Little baby dear, good-night. 
 
 Jane Taylor 
 149
 
 To Mother 
 
 THE OLD ARM-CHAIR 
 
 I love it ! I love it ! and who shall dare 
 To chide me for loving that old arm-chair? 
 I 've treasured it long as a sainted prize, 
 I 've bedew'd it with tears, and embalm'd it 
 
 with sighs ; 
 'T is bound by a thousand bands to my heart ; 
 Not a tie will break, not a link will start. 
 Would ye learn the spell? — a mother sat 
 
 there, 
 And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. 
 
 In childhood's hour I linger'd near 
 The hallow'd seat with listening ear; 
 And gentle words that mother would give, 
 To fit me to die and teach me to live : 
 She told me shame would never betide 
 With truth for my creed and God for my 
 
 guide ; 
 She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, 
 As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. 
 
 I sat and watch'd her many a day, 
 
 When her eye grew dim, and her locks were 
 
 gray; 
 And I almost worshipp'd her when she 
 
 smiled, 
 And turn'd from her Bible to bless her child. 
 
 150
 
 Old-F ashioncd Mother Poems 
 
 Years roll'd on, but the last one sped — 
 My idol was shatter'd, ray earth-star fled ; 
 I learnt how much the heart can bear, 
 When I saw her die in that old arm-chair. 
 
 'T is past ! 't is past ! but I gaze on it now 
 With quivering breath and throbbing brow: 
 'T was there she nursed me, 't was there she 
 
 died; 
 And memory flows with lava tide. 
 Say it is folly, and deem me weak, 
 While the scalding drops start down my 
 
 cheek ; 
 But I love, I love it ! and cannot tear 
 My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. 
 
 Eliza Cook
 
 SONNETS on *** 
 MOTHERHOOD *
 
 AD MATREM 
 
 Oft in the after days, when thou and I 
 Have fallen from the cope of human view, 
 When, both together, under the sweet sky 
 We sleep beneath the daisies and the dew, 
 Men will recall thy gracious presence bland, 
 Conning the pictured sweetness of thy face ; 
 Will pore o'er paintings by thy plastic hand, 
 And vaunt thy skill, and tell thy deeds of 
 
 grace. 
 Oh may they then, who crown thee with true 
 
 bays, 
 Saying, " What love unto her son she bore ! " 
 Make this addition to thy perfect praise, 
 "Nor ever yet was mother worshiped 
 
 more ! " 
 So shall I live with thee, and thy dear fame 
 Shall link my love unto thine honored name. 
 
 Julian Henry Fane 
 
 NATURE 
 
 As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, 
 Leads by the hand her little child to bed, 
 Half willing, half reluctant to be led, 
 And leave his broken playthings on the 
 floor, 
 
 L55
 
 To Mother 
 
 Still gazing at them through the open door, 
 Nor wholly reassured and comforted 
 By promises of others in their stead, 
 Which, though more splendid, may not 
 please him more ; 
 So Nature deals with us, and takes away 
 Our playthings one by one, and by the 
 
 hand 
 Leads us to rest so gently, that we go 
 Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, 
 Being too full of sleep to understand 
 How far the unknown transcends the what 
 we know. 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 
 
 BEDTIME 
 
 'T is bedtime ; say your hymn, and bid 
 
 " Good -night ; 
 God bless Mamma, Papa, and dear ones 
 
 all." 
 Your half-shut eyes beneath your eyelids 
 
 fall, 
 Another minute, you will shut them quite. 
 Yes, I will carry you, put out the light, 
 And tuck you up, although you are so 
 
 tall! 
 What will you give me, sleepy one, and eall 
 My wages, if I settle you all right? 
 I laid her golden curls upon my arm, 
 
 156
 
 Sonnets on Motherhood 
 
 I drew her little feet within my hand, 
 
 Her rosy palms were joined in trustful bliss, 
 
 Her heart next mine beat gently, soft and 
 
 warm 
 She nestled to me, by Love's command, 
 Paid me my precious wages — "Baby's 
 
 Kiss." 
 
 Francis, Earl of Rosslyn 
 
 HER FIRSTBORN 
 
 It was her first sweet child, her heart's de- 
 light : 
 And, though we all foresaw his early doom, 
 We kept the fearful secret out of sight ; 
 We saw the canker, but she kiss'd the bloom. 
 And yet it might not be: we could not 
 
 brook 
 To vex her happy heart with vague alarms, 
 To blanch with fear her fond intrepid look, 
 Or send a thrill through those encircling 
 
 arms. 
 She smil'd upon him, waking or at rest: 
 She could not dream her little child would 
 
 die: 
 She toss'd him fondly with an upward eye: 
 She seem'd as buoyant as a summer spray, 
 That dances with a blossom on its breast, 
 Nor knows how soon it will be borne away. 
 Charles Tennyson Turner 
 157
 
 To Mother 
 
 TO A YOUNG CHILD 
 
 As doth his heart who travels far from home 
 Leap up whenever he by chance doth see 
 One from his mother-country lately come, 
 Friend from my home — thus do I welcome 
 
 thee. 
 Thou art so late arrived that I the tale 
 Of thy high lineage on thy brow can trace, 
 And almost feel the breath of that soft gale 
 That wafted thee unto this desert place, 
 And half can hear those ravishing sounds 
 
 that flowed 
 From out Heaven's gate when it was oped 
 
 for thee, 
 That thou awhile mightst leave thy bright 
 
 abode 
 Amid these lone and desolate tracks to be 
 A homesick, weary wanderer, and then 
 Return unto thy native land again. 
 
 Eliza Scudder 
 
 THE VIRGIN 
 
 Mother! whose virgin bosom was uncrost 
 With the least shade of thought to sin allied ; 
 Woman ! above all women glorified, 
 Our tainted nature's solitary boast ; 
 Purer than foam on central ocean tost; 
 
 158
 
 Sonnets on Motherhood 
 
 Brighter than eastern skies at daybreak 
 
 strewn 
 With fancied roses, than the unblemished 
 
 moon 
 Before her wane begins on heaven's blue 
 
 coast ; 
 Thy image falls to earth. Yet some, I ween, 
 Not unforgiven the suppliant knee might 
 
 bend, 
 As to a visible Power, in which did blend 
 All that was mixed and reconciled in Thee 
 Of mother's love with maiden purity, 
 Of high with low, celestial with terrene! 
 
 William Wordsworth 
 
 THANKSGIVING AFTER 
 CHILDBIRTH 
 
 Woman ! the Power who left his throne on 
 
 high, 
 And deigned to wear the robe of flesh we 
 
 wear, 
 The Power that thro' the straits of Infancy 
 Did pass dependent on maternal care, 
 His own humanity with Thee will share, 
 Pleased with the thanks that in his People's 
 
 eye 
 
 Thou offerest up for safe Delivery 
 
 From Childbirth's perilous throes. And 
 
 should the Heir 
 150
 
 To Mother 
 
 Of thy fond hopes hereafter walk inclined 
 To courses fit to make a mother rue 
 That ever he was born, a glance of mind 
 Cast upon this observance may renew 
 A better will ; and, in the imagined view 
 Of thee thus kneeling, safety he may find. 
 
 William Wordsworth 
 
 MY MOTHER 
 
 There was a gather'd stillness in the room : 
 Only the breathing of the great sea rose 
 From far off, aiding that profound repose, 
 With regular pulse and pause within the 
 
 gloom 
 Of twilight, as if some impending doom 
 Was now approaching ; — I sat moveless there, 
 Watching with tears and thoughts that were 
 
 like prayer, 
 Till the hour struck, — the thread dropp'd 
 
 from the loom ; 
 And the Bark pass'd in which freed souls 
 
 are borne. 
 The dear still'd face lay there ; that sound 
 
 forlorn 
 Continued ; I rose not, but long sat by : 
 And now my heart oft hears that sad seashore. 
 When she is in the far-off land, and I 
 Wait the dark sail returning yet once more. 
 
 William Bell Scott 
 160
 
 Somiets of Motherhood 
 
 EVENING 
 
 Age cannot wither her whom not gray hairs 
 Nor furrowed cheeks have made the thrall 
 
 of Time ; 
 For Spring lies hidden under Winter's rime, 
 And violets know the victory is theirs. 
 Even so the corn of Egypt, unawares, 
 Proud Nilus shelters with engulfing slime ; 
 So Etna's hardening crust a more sublime 
 Volley of pent-up fires at last prepares. 
 O face yet fair, if paler, and serene 
 With sense of duty done without complaint ! 
 O venerable crown ! — a living green, 
 Strength to the weak, and courage to the 
 
 faint — 
 Thy bleaching locks, thy wrinkles, have but 
 
 been 
 Fresh beads upon the rosary of a saint ! 
 
 Wendell Phillips Garrison 
 
 TO MY FIRST LOVE, MY MOTHER 
 
 Sonnets are full of love, and this my tome 
 
 Has many sonnets: so here now shall be 
 
 One sonnet more, a love sonnet, from me 
 
 To her whose heart is my heart's quiet home, 
 
 To my first Love, my Mother, on whose 
 
 knee 
 
 161
 
 To Mother 
 
 I learnt love-lore that is not troublesome ; 
 
 Whose service is my special dignity, 
 And she my lodestar while I go and come. 
 
 And so because you love me, and because 
 I love you, Mother, I have woven a 
 wreath 
 Of rhymes wherewith to crown your 
 
 honored name: 
 In you not fourscore years can dim the 
 flame 
 Of love, whose blessed glow transcends the 
 laws 
 Of time and change and mortal life and 
 death. 
 
 Christina G. Iiossetti
 
 TRIBUTES 
 MOTHERS
 
 MOTHER O' MINE* 
 
 If I were hanged on the highest hill, 
 
 Mother o' mine, mother o' mine ! 
 
 I know whose love would follow me still, 
 Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine ! 
 
 If I were drowned in the deepest sea, 
 
 Mother o' mine, mother o' mine ! 
 
 I know whose tears would come down to me, 
 Mother o' mine, mother o' mine 1 
 
 If I were damned of body and soul, 
 I know whose prayers would make me whole, 
 Mother o' mine, mother o' mine ! 
 
 Iiudyard Kipling 
 
 AT BETHLEHEM 
 
 Long, long before the Babe could speak, 
 When he would kiss his mother's cheek 
 
 And to her bosom press, 
 The brightest angels standing near 
 Would turn away to hide a tear — 
 
 For they are motherless. 
 
 1 By permission of the author, Rndyard Kipling. 
 From The, Light that Failed, copyright, 1S99, by Rud- 
 yard Kipling. 
 
 if,r,
 
 To Mother 
 
 Where were ye, Birds, that bless His name, 
 When wingless to the world He came, 
 And wordless, though Himself the Word 
 That made the blossom and the bird ? 
 
 John Banister Tabh 
 
 TO HIS MOTHER 
 
 He brought a Lily white, 
 That bowed its fragrant head 
 And blushed a rosy red 
 Before her fairer light. 
 
 He brought a rose ; and, lo, 
 The crimson blossom saw 
 Her beauty, and in awe 
 Became as white as snow. 
 
 John Banister Tabh 
 
 THE SHEPHERDESS 
 
 She walks — the lady of my delight — 
 
 A shepherdess of sheep. 
 Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them 
 white ; 
 She guards them from the steep. 
 She feeds them on the fragrant height, 
 And folds them in for sleep. 
 160
 
 Tributes to Mothers 
 
 She roams maternal hills and bright, 
 Dark valleys safe and deep. 
 
 Into that tender breast at night 
 The chastest stars may peep. 
 
 She walks — the lady of my delight — 
 A shepherdess of sheep. 
 
 She holds her little thoughts in sight, 
 Though gay they run and leap. 
 
 She is so circumspect and right ; 
 She has her soul to keep. 
 
 She walks — the lady of my delight — 
 A shepherdess of sheep. 
 
 Alice Meynell 
 
 MOTHERLESS 
 
 1 write. My mother was a Florentine, 
 Whose rare blue eyes were shut from seeing 
 
 me 
 "When scarcely I was four years old ; my life, 
 A poor spark snatched up from a failing lamp 
 Which went out therefore. She was weak 
 
 and frail; 
 She could not bear the joy of giving life — 
 The mother's rapture slew her. If her kiss 
 Had left a longer weight upon my lips, 
 It might have steadied the uneasy breath, 
 And reconciled and fraternized my soul 
 With a new order. As it was, indeed, 
 
 167
 
 To Mother 
 
 I felt a mother-want about the world, 
 And still went seeking, like a bleating lamb 
 Left out at night, in shutting up the fold, — 
 As restless as a nest-deserted bird 
 Grown chill through something being away, 
 
 though what 
 It knows not. I, Aurora Leigh, was born 
 To make my father sadder, and myself 
 Not overjoyous, truly. Women know 
 The way to rear up children (to be just) 
 They know a simple, merry, tender knack 
 Of tying sashes, fitting baby-shoes, 
 And stringing pretty words that make no 
 
 sense, 
 And kissing full sense into empty words ; 
 Which things are corals to cut life upon, 
 Although such trifles : children learn by such 
 Love's holy earnest in a pretty play, 
 And get not over-early solemnized, — 
 But seeing, as in a rose-bush, Love's Divine, 
 Which burns and hurts not, — not a single 
 
 bloom, — 
 Become aware and unafraid of Love. 
 Such good do mothers. Fathers love as well. 
 — Mine did, I know, — but still with heavier 
 
 brains, 
 And wills more consciously responsible, 
 And not as wisely, since less foolishly ; 
 So mothers have God's license to be missed. 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning 
 168
 
 Tributes to Mothers 
 
 CHILD AND MOTHER 
 
 Mother-My-Love, if you '11 give me your 
 
 hand, 
 And go where I ask you to wander, 
 
 1 will lead you away to a beautiful land — 
 The Dreamland that's waiting out yon- 
 der. 
 
 We '11 walk in a sweet-posie garden out there 
 Where moonlight and starlight are stream- 
 ing 
 And the flowers and birds are filling the 
 air 
 With fragrance and music of dreaming. 
 
 There '11 be no little tired-out boy to undress, 
 
 No questions or cares to perplex you ; 
 There '11 be no little bruises or bumps to 
 caress, 
 Nor patching of stockings to vex you. 
 For I'll rock you away on a silver-dew 
 stream, 
 And sing you asleep when you 're weary, 
 And no one shall know of our beautiful 
 dream 
 But you and your own little dearie. 
 
 And when I am tired I '11 nestle my head 
 In the bosom that 's soothed me so often, 
 169
 
 To Mother 
 
 And the wide-awake stars shall sing in my 
 stead 
 A song which our dreaming shall soften. 
 So Mother-my-Love, let me take your dear 
 hand, 
 And away through the starlight we'll 
 wander — 
 Away through the mist to the beautiful 
 land — 
 The Dreamland that's waiting out yon- 
 der! 
 
 Eugene Field 
 
 MY AIN WIFE 
 
 I wadna gi'e my ain wife 
 
 For ony wife I see ; 
 I wadna gi'e my ain wife 
 
 For ony wife I see; 
 A bonnier yet I 've never seen, 
 
 A better canna be — 
 I wadna gi'e my ain wife 
 
 For ony wife I see ! 
 
 couthie is my ingle-cheek, 
 An' cheerie is my Jean ; 
 
 1 never see her angry look, 
 
 Nor hear her word on ane. 
 She 's gude wi' a' the neebours roun' 
 An' aye gude wi' me — 
 170
 
 Tributes to Mothers 
 
 I wadna gi'e ray ain wife 
 For ony wife I see. 
 
 An' O her looks sae kindlie, 
 
 They melt ray heart outright, 
 "When o'er the baby at her breast 
 
 She hangs wi' fond delight ; 
 She looks intill its bounie face, 
 
 An' syne looks to me — 
 I wadna gi'e my ain wife 
 
 For ony wife I see. 
 
 Alexander Laing 
 
 </• 
 
 SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF 
 DELIGHT 
 
 She was a phantom of delight 
 When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 
 A lovely apparition, sent 
 To be a moment's ornament ; 
 Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; 
 Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 
 But all things else about her drawn 
 From May-time and the cheerful dawn ; 
 A dancing shape, an image gay, 
 To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 
 
 I saw her upon nearer view, 
 A spirit, yet a woman too ! 
 
 171
 
 To Mother 
 
 Her household motions light and free, 
 
 And steps of virgin liberty; 
 
 A countenance in which did meet 
 
 Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 
 
 A creature not too bright or good 
 
 For human nature's daily food, 
 
 For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
 
 Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 
 
 And now I see with eye serene 
 The very pulse of the machine ; 
 A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
 A traveler between life and death ; 
 The reason firm, the temperate will, 
 Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 
 A perfect woman, nobly planned 
 To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
 And yet a spirit still, and bright 
 With something of an angel light. / 
 
 William Wordsworth 
 
 CLING TO THY MOTHER 
 
 Cling to thy mother ; for she was the first 
 To know thy being, and to feel thy life ; 
 The hope of thee through many a pang she 
 nurst ; 
 And when, midst anguish like the parting 
 strife, 
 
 172
 
 Tributes to Mothers 
 
 Her babe was in her arms, the agony 
 Was all forgot, for bliss of loving thee. 
 
 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 lisp- 
 ings truth. 
 Yes, she is old ; yet on thine adult brow 
 She looks, and claims thee as her child e'en 
 now. 
 
 Uphold thy mother ; close to her warm heart 
 She carried, fed thee, lull'd thee to thy 
 rest; 
 Then taught thy tottering limbs their un- 
 tried 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 
 
 gave; 
 
 Past are her hopes of youth, her harvest 
 
 prime 
 
 Of joy on earth ; her friends are in the 
 
 grave ; 
 
 173
 
 To Mother 
 
 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 
 pang 
 
 To that fond bosom, where thou art en- 
 shrined 
 In love unutterable, more than fang 
 
 Of venom'd serpent. Wound not that strong 
 trust 
 
 As thou wouldst hope for peace when she is 
 dust. 
 
 O mother mine ! God grant I ne'er forget, 
 Whatever be my grief, or what my joy, 
 The unmeasured, inextinguishable debt 
 I owe thy love ; but make my sweet em- 
 ploy 
 Ever through thy remaining days to be 
 To thee as faithful, as thou wert to me. 
 
 George Bethune 
 
 NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP 
 
 " Now I lay me down to sleep : 
 I pray the Lord my soul to keep," 
 Was my childhood's early prayer 
 Taught by my mother's love and care. 
 174
 
 Tributes to Mothers 
 
 Many years since then have fled ; 
 Mother slumbers with the dead ; 
 Yet methinks I see her now, 
 With love-lit eyes and holy brow, 
 As, kneeling by her side to pray, 
 She gently taught me how to say, 
 " Now I lay me down to sleep : 
 I pray the Lord my soul to keep." 
 
 Oh ! could the faith of childhood's days 
 Oh ! could its little hymns of praise, 
 Oh ! could its simple, joyous trust 
 Be recreated from the dust 
 That lies around a wasted life, 
 The fruit of many a bitter strife ! 
 Oh ! then at night in prayer I 'd bend, 
 And call my God, my Father, Friend, 
 And pray with childlike faith once more 
 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 
 
 BIRTH 
 
 Just when each bud was big with bloom, 
 And as prophetic of perfume, 
 
 When spring, with her bright horoscope, 
 Was sweet as an unuttered hope ; 
 
 175
 
 To Mother 
 
 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 
 Grew sacred as an unvoiced prayer, 
 
 And somewhere through the dusk she heard 
 The stirring of a nested bird, — 
 
 Four angels glorified the place : 
 
 Wan Pain unveiled her awful face ; 
 
 Joy, soaring, sang ; Love, brooding, smiled ; 
 Peace laid upon her breast a child. 
 Annie It . Stillman (" Grace Raymond"} 
 
 ONLY ONE 
 
 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. 
 
 George Cooper 
 
 176
 
 Tributes to Mothers 
 
 » THE OLD FACE OF THE MOTHER 
 OF MANY CHILDREN " 
 
 The old face of the mother of many children, 
 Whist ! I am fully content. 
 
 LulTd 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 wild- 
 cherry and cat-brier under them. 
 
 I saw the rich ladies in full dress at the 
 
 soiree, 
 I heard what the singers were singing so 
 
 long, 
 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. 
 
 177
 
 To Mother 
 
 Her ample gown is of cream-hued linen, 
 Her grandsons raised the flax, and her grand- 
 daughters spun it with the distaff and 
 the wheel. 
 
 The melodious character of the earth, 
 
 The finish beyond which philosophy cannot 
 
 go and does not wish to go, 
 The justified mother of men. 
 
 Walt Whitman 
 
 A MOTHER 
 
 Ah ! bless'd are they for whom, 'mid all 
 
 their pains, 
 That faithful and unalter'd love remains ; 
 Who, Life wreck'd round them — hunted 
 
 from their rest — 
 And, by all else forsaken or distress'd — 
 Claim, in one heart, their sanctuary and 
 
 shrine — 
 As I, my Mother, claim'd my place in 
 
 thine ! 
 Oft, since that hour, in sadness I retrace 
 My childhood's vision of thy calm sweet 
 
 face; 
 Oft see thy form, its mournful beauty 
 
 shrouded 
 In thy black weeds, and coif of widow's 
 
 woe ; 
 
 178
 
 Tributes to Mothers 
 
 Thy dark expressive eyes all dim and clouded 
 By that deep wretchedness the lonely 
 know: 
 Stifling thy grief, to hear some weary task, 
 Conn'd by unwilling lips, with listless air; 
 Hoarding thy means, lest future need might 
 ask 
 More than the widow's pittance then could 
 spare. 
 Hidden, forgotten by the great and gay, 
 
 Enduring sorrow, not by fits and starts, 
 But the long self-denial, day by day, 
 
 Alone amidst thy brood of careless hearts ! 
 Striving to guide, to teach, or to restrain, 
 The young rebellious spirits crowding 
 round, 
 Who saw not, knew not, felt not for thy 
 pain, 
 And could not comfort — yet had power 
 to wound ! 
 Ah ! how my selfish heart, which since hath 
 
 grown 
 Familiar with deep trials of its own, 
 With riper judgment looking to the past, 
 Regrets the careless days that flew so fast, 
 Stamps with remorse each wasted hour of 
 
 time, 
 And darkens every folly into crime ! 
 
 Caroline E. S. Norton 
 
 179
 
 To Mother 
 
 TO MY MOTHER 
 
 I SEE your face as on that calmer day 
 When from my infant eyes it passed away 
 Beyond these petty cares and questionings 
 Beyond this sphere of sordid human 
 things — 
 The trampled field of time's capricious play. 
 
 Bright with more mother-love than tongue 
 
 can say, 
 Stern with the sense of foes in strong array, 
 Yet hopeful, with no hopefulness earth 
 brings — 
 I see your face. 
 
 O gracious guarder from the primrose way, 
 O loving guide when wayward feet would 
 stray, 
 O inspiration sweet when the heart sings, 
 O patient ministrant to sufferings, 
 Down the long road, madonna mia, may 
 I see your face. 
 
 Robert Haven Schavffler 
 
 180
 
 Tributes to Mothers 
 
 MY MOTHER 
 
 She was as good as goodness is, 
 Her acts and all her words were kind, 
 And high above all memories 
 I hold the beauty of her mind. 
 
 Frederic Hentz Adams 
 
 THE END
 
 INDEXES
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 A month, sweet little ones, is past .... 16 
 
 A Stranger, to His own 84 
 
 A Widow, — she had only one! 7 
 
 Age cannot wither her whom not gray hairs . . 161 
 
 Ah! bless'd are they for whom, 'mid all . . . 178 
 
 As a fond mother, when the day is o'er . . . 155 
 
 As doth his heart who travels far from home . . 158 
 
 As Joseph was a-waukin' 82 
 
 Auld Daddy Darkness creeps frae his hole . . . 102 
 
 Baby, baby, ope your eye 142 
 
 Before I knew the love of man 52 
 
 Brightly for him the future smiled .... 63 
 
 Brook, of the listening grass 19 
 
 Children are what the mothers are .... 125 
 
 Cling to thy mother; for she was the first . . 172 
 
 Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the east . 83 
 
 Departed Child! I could forget thee once . . 24 
 
 "Do you go to Norton, mamma, this next week?" 138 
 
 Ere last year's morn had left the sky .... 124 
 
 Ere the moon begins to rise 95 
 
 Every week of every season out of English ports go 
 
 forth 58 
 
 He brought a Lily white 166 
 
 He came all so still 87 
 
 He sang so wildly, did the Boy 5 
 
 Heigh Ho! daisies and buttercups .... 3 
 
 "Ho, Sailor of the sea!" 40 
 
 Home they brought her warrior dead . . .18 
 
 "How many miles to Baby-Land?" .... 112 
 
 Hundreds of stars in the pretty sky .... 176 
 
 Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber .... 92 
 
 I have two sons, wife 51 
 
 I love it! I love it! and who shall dare . . . 150 
 
 I see your face as on that calmer day . . . 180 
 
 I thought it was the little bed 135 
 
 I wadna gi'e my ain wife 170 
 
 I write. My mother was a Florentine . . .167 
 
 185
 
 Index of First Lines 
 
 If I were hanged on the highest hill . . . .165 
 Is the noise of grief in the palace over the river . 79 
 It was her 6rst sweet child, her heart's delight . 157 
 
 It was the winter wild 09 
 
 Just when each bud was big with bloom . . . 175 
 
 Little baby, lay your head 149 
 
 Long, long before the Babe could speak . . .165 
 Lord, I am weeping. As Thou wilt, O Lord . . 62 
 
 Love thy mother, little one! 136 
 
 Mary! 54 
 
 Mother of Christ long slain, forth glided she . . 65 
 
 Mother wept, and father sigh'd 39 
 
 Mother! whose virgin bosom was uncrost . . 158 
 
 My heart is like a fountain true 113 
 
 My little dear, so fast asleep 126 
 
 My mother bore me in the southern wild . .123 
 My mother's hands are cool and fair ... 28 
 
 My own mamma! 143 
 
 "Now I lay me down to sleep" 174 
 
 O, Hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight . 106 
 O Mother-My-Love, if you'll give me your hand . 109 
 O that those lips had language! Life has passed . 44 
 
 O when the half-light weaves 42 
 
 Oft in the after days, when thou and I . . . 155 
 Oh, to come home once more, when the dusk is fall- 
 ing 118 
 
 Ring-Ting! I wish I were a Primrose . . .137 
 Safe sleeping on its mother's breast .... 147 
 Say, did his sisters wonder what could Joseph see 83 
 
 Sea-Birds are asleep 91 
 
 She seemed an angel to our infant eyes! ... 4 
 She walks — the lady of my delight . . . .166 
 
 She was a phantom of delight 171 
 
 She was as good as goodness is 181 
 
 Sleep, Baby, sleep! 95 
 
 Sleep, little baby of mine 115 
 
 Sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings ... 96 
 
 Sleep, sleep, beauty bright 105 
 
 So fair, so dear, so warm upon my bosom . .111 
 
 So; it is nightfall then 22 
 
 Sonnets are full of love, and this my tome . . 161 
 Still farther would I fly, my child .... 43 
 
 Sweet and low, sweet and low 92 
 
 186
 
 Index of First Lines 
 
 The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht .... 145 
 The dark-fringed eyelids slowly close . . . 119 
 The days are cold, the nights are long ... 97 
 The old face of the mother of many children . .177 
 The wind blew wide the casement, and within . 121 
 There sitteth a dove, so fair and white ... 98 
 They sin who tell us love can die . . . .127 
 
 They tell us of an Indian tree 145 
 
 There was a gather'd stillness in the room . . 160 
 
 There's a song in the air! 85 
 
 This book is all that 's left me now, — . . .50 
 
 This, then, is she 7 
 
 Thou that once, on mother's knee .... 86 
 'T is bedtime; say your hymn, and bid "Good- 
 night" 156 
 
 Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee . . 104 
 What is the little one thinking about? . . . 116 
 
 What is the pretty little thing 141 
 
 What is the road to slumber-land and when does the 
 
 baby go? 98 
 
 Whene'er there comes a little child .... 128 
 
 White little hands! 103 
 
 Who fed me from her gentle breast .... 133 
 Within the crib that stands beside my bed . . 122 
 Woman! the Power who left his throne on high. . 159 
 Would you know the baby's skies? .... 16 
 Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night . . . 100 
 Ye Spartan mothers, gentle ones . . . .61
 
 INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 Aboriginal Mother's 
 
 Lament, An Charles Harpur 43 
 
 Absent Soldier Son, 
 
 The Sidney Dobell 62 
 
 Ad Matrem Julian Henry Fane 155 
 
 Alison's Mother to the 
 
 Brook Josephine Preston Peabody 19 
 
 At Bethlehem John Banister Tabb 165 
 
 Auld Daddy Darkness James Ferguson 102 
 
 Baby, The Jane Taylor 147 
 
 Baby, The Jane and Ann Taylor 141 
 
 Baby-Land George Cooper 112 
 
 Baby's Skies M. C. Bartlett 16 
 
 Bedtime Francis, Earl of Rosslyn. . . 156 
 
 Birth Annie R. Stillman 175 
 
 ("Grace Raymond") 
 
 Carol, A Unknown 87 
 
 Child and Mother Eugene Field 169 
 
 Children Walter Savage Landor . . . . 125 
 
 Children's Kisses Josephine Preston Peabody 22 
 
 Christ the Mendicant . John Banister Tabb 84 
 
 Christmas Carol, A. . .Josiah Gilbert Holland 85 
 
 Christmas Carol Unknown 82 
 
 Cling to thy Mother. .George Bethune 172 
 
 Cottager's Lullaby, 
 
 The Dorothy Wordsworth 97 
 
 Cradle Hymn, A Isaac Watts 92 
 
 Cradle Song Thomas Bailey Aldrich 95 
 
 Cradle Song William Blake 105 
 
 Cradle Song (From 
 
 "Bitter-Sweet"). . . Josiah Gilbert Holland. ... 116 
 
 Cradle Song Unknown 115 
 
 Cuddle Doon Alexander Anderson 145 
 
 Daguerreotype, The. . . William Vaughn Moody. . . 7 
 
 189
 
 Index of Titles 
 
 English Mother, An. . . Robert Underwood Johnson 58 
 Evening Wendell Phillips Garrison.. 161 
 
 Firstborn, The John Arthur Goodchild. ... Ill 
 
 Getting Up Jane Taylor 142 
 
 Good-Night Jane Taylor 149 
 
 Half- Waking William Allingham 135 
 
 Her Firstborn Charles Tennyson Turner.. 157 
 
 How's My Boy? Sidney Dobell 40 
 
 Hymn on the Nativity John Milton 69 
 
 Immortality of Love, 
 The Robert Southey 127 
 
 Japanese Lullaby Eugene Field 96 
 
 Lines to My Mother's 
 
 Picture William Cowper 44 
 
 Little Black Boy, The.. William Blake 123 
 
 Little Child's Hymn, 
 
 A Francis Turner Palgrave.. . 86 
 
 Lullaby of an Infant 
 
 Chief Walter Scott 106 
 
 Mammal Anna M. Wells 143 
 
 Maternal Grief William Wordsworth 24 
 
 Maternity Annie P. L. Fields 122 
 
 Matres Dolorosa? Robert Bridges 61 
 
 Mother, A Caroline E. S. Norton 178 
 
 Mother and Child. . . .William Gilmore Simms. . . 121 
 
 Mother and Poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning 33 
 
 Mother and Son Phcebe Cary 63 
 
 Mother in Egypt, A.. .Marjorie L. C. Pickthall . . 79 
 
 Mother o' Mine Rudyard Kipling 165 
 
 Mother to Son Irene Rutherford McLeod . 52 
 
 Mother Wept Joseph Skipsey 39 
 
 Motherhood Agnes Lee 65 
 
 Motherless Elizabeth Barrett Browning 167 
 
 Mother-Song (From 
 
 "Prince Lucifer"). . . Alfred Austin 103 
 
 Mother's Love Thomas Burbidge 5 
 
 190
 
 Index of Titles 
 
 Mother's Picture, A. . .Edmund Clarence Stednian 4 
 
 Mother's Return, The. Dorothy Wordsworth 16 
 
 Mother's Song Unknown 113 
 
 My Ain Wife Alexander Laing 170 
 
 My Bird Emily C. Judson 124 
 
 My Little Dear Dollie Radford 126 
 
 My Mother Frederic Hentz Adams .... 181 
 
 My Mother Jane Taylor 133 
 
 My Mother William Bell Scott 160 
 
 My Mother's Bible . . . George Pope Morris 50 
 
 Nature Henry W. Longfellow 155 
 
 " Now I Lay Me Down 
 
 to Sleep " Eugene Henry Pullen 174 
 
 Old Arm Chair, The.. . Eliza Cook 150 
 
 ' One Mother Irene Rutherford McLeod . 54 
 
 Only One George Cooper 176 
 
 Regina Coeli Coventry Patmore 83 
 
 Road to Slumber-Land, 
 
 The Mary Dow Brine 98 
 
 Sad Mother, The Katharine Tynan Hinkson. 42 
 
 Sea Slumber-Song Roden Noel 91 
 
 Sephestia's Lullaby 
 
 (From "Menaphon" Robert Greene) 104 
 
 Seven Times Four .... Jean Ingelow 3 
 
 She was a Phantom of 
 
 Delight William Wordsworth 171 
 
 Shepherdess, The Alice Meynell 166 
 
 Sleep, Baby, Sleep .... Anonymous 95 
 
 Song from "The Prin- 
 cess." Alfred Tennyson 18 
 
 Song of Twilight, A. . . Unknown 118 
 
 Songs for My Mother. .Anna Hempstead Branch . . 28 
 
 Swedish Mother's Lul- 
 laby Frederika Bremer 98 
 
 Sweet and Low Alfred Tennyson 92 
 
 Thanksgiving after 
 
 Childbirth William Wordsworth 159 
 
 191
 
 Index of Titles 
 
 "That They All May 
 
 Be One" Roden Noel 128 
 
 "The old face of the mother of many children" 
 
 Walt Whitman 177 
 
 To a Child Embracing 
 
 His Mother Thomas Hood 136 
 
 To a Young Child Eliza Scudder 158 
 
 To His Mother John Banister Tabb 166 
 
 To My First Love, My 
 
 Mother Christina G. Rossetti 161 
 
 To My Mother Thomas Moore 145 
 
 To My Mother Robert Haven Schauffler. . 180 
 
 Tucking the Baby In.. Curtis May 119 
 
 Two Sons Robert Buchanan 51 
 
 Virgin, The William Wordsworth 158 
 
 Visit, The Rhymes for the Nursery.. . 138 
 
 Widow's Mite, The . . . Frederick Locker-Lampson. 7 
 
 Wishing William Allingham 137 
 
 Wynken, Blynken, and 
 Nod Eugene Field 100
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS 
 
 Adams, Frederic Hentz 181 
 
 Aldrich, Thomas Bailey 95 
 
 Allingham, William 135, 137 
 
 Anderson, Alexander 145 
 
 Anonymous 95 
 
 Austin, Alfred 103 
 
 Bartlett, M. C 16 
 
 Bethune, George 172 
 
 Blake, William 105, 123 
 
 Branch, Anna Hempstead 28 
 
 Bremer, Frederika 98 
 
 Bridges, Robert 61 
 
 Brine, Mary Dow 98 
 
 Browning, Elizabeth Barrett 33, 167 
 
 Buchanan, Robert 51 
 
 Burbidge, Thomas 5 
 
 Cary, Phoebe 63 
 
 Cook, Eliza 150 
 
 Cooper, George 112, 176 
 
 Cowper, William 44 
 
 Dobell, Sidney 40, 62 
 
 Fane, Julian Henry 155 
 
 Ferguson, James 102 
 
 Field, Anne P. L 122 
 
 Field, Eugene 96, 100, 169 
 
 Garrison, Wendell Phillips 161 
 
 Goodchild, John Arthur Ill 
 
 Greene, Robert 104 
 
 Harpur, Charles 43 
 
 Hinkson, Katharine Tynan 42 
 
 193
 
 Index of Authors 
 
 Holland, Josiah Gilbert 85, 116 
 
 Hood, Thomas 136 
 
 Ingelow, Jean 3 
 
 Johnson, Robert Underwood 58 
 
 Judson, Emily C 12-4 
 
 Kipling, Rudyard 165 
 
 Laing, Alexander 170 
 
 Landor, Walter Savage 125 
 
 Lee, Agnes 65 
 
 Locker-Lampson, Frederick 7 
 
 Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth 155 
 
 May, Curtis 119 
 
 McLeod, Irene Rutherford 52, 54 
 
 Meynell, Alice 166 
 
 Milton, John 69 
 
 Moody, William Vaughn 7 
 
 Moore, Thomas 145 
 
 Morris, George Pope 50 
 
 Noel, Roden 91, 128 
 
 Norton, Caroline E. S 178 
 
 Palgrave, Francis Turner 86 
 
 Patmore, Coventry 83 
 
 Peabody, Josephine Preston 19, 22 
 
 Pickthall, Marjorie L. C 79 
 
 Pullen, Eugene Henry 174 
 
 Radford, Dollie 126 
 
 Rhymes for the Nursery 138 
 
 Rossetti, Christina G 161 
 
 Rosslyn, Francis, Earl of 156 
 
 Schauffler, Robert Haven 180 
 
 Scott, Walter 106 
 
 Scott, William Bell 160 
 
 Scudder, Eliza 158 
 
 Simms, William Gilmore 121 
 
 194
 
 Index of Authors 
 
 Skipsey, Joseph 39 
 
 Southey, Robert 127 
 
 Stedman, Edmund Clarence 4 
 
 Stillman, Annie R 175 
 
 ("Grace Raymond") 
 
 Tabb, John Banister 84, 165, 166 
 
 Taylor, Jane 133, 142, 147, 149 
 
 Taylor, Jane and Ann 141 
 
 Tennyson, Alfred 18, 92 
 
 Turner, Charles Tennyson 157 
 
 Unknown 82, 87, 113, 115, 118 
 
 Watts, Isaac 92 
 
 Wells, Anna M 143 
 
 Whitman, Walt 177 
 
 Wordsworth, Dorothy 16, 97 
 
 Wordsworth, William 24, 158, 159, 171
 
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