Age after age shall pass away,

Nor shall their beauty fade, their forms decay:
For here is no corruption,-the cold worm
Can never prey upon that beauteous form:
This smile of death that fades not, shall engage
The deep affections of each distant age!
Mothers, till ruin the round world hath rent,
Shall gaze with tears upon the monument;
And fathers sigh, with half-suspended breath,
"How sweetly sleep the innocent in death !"

W. L. BOWLES.

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

A MOTHER'S love,-how sweet the name !

What is a mother's love?

A noble, pure, and tender flame,

Enkindled from above,

To bless a heart of earthly mould;
The warmest love that can grow cold;
This is a mother's love.

To bring a helpless babe to light,
Then, while it lies forlorn,
To gaze upon that dearest sight,
And feel herself new-born,
In its existence lose her own,
And live and breathe in it alone;

This is a mother's love.

48

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

Its weakness in her arms to bear;

To cherish on her breast,

Feed it from Love's own fountain there,

And lull it there to rest;

Then, while it slumbers, watch its breath,
As if to guard from instant death;
This is a mother's love.

To mark its growth from day to day,
Its opening charms admire,
Catch from its eye the earliest ray
Of intellectual fire;

To smile and listen while it talks,
And lend a finger when it walks;
This is a mother's love.

And can a mother's love grow cold?
Can she forget her boy?
His pleading innocence behold,
Nor weep for grief-for joy?
A mother may forget her child,
While wolves devour it on the wild;
Is this a mother's love?

Ten thousand voices answer "No!"
Ye clasp your babes and kiss;
Your bosoms yearn, your eyes o'erflow;
Yet, ah! remember this,-

The infant reared alone for earth,

May live, may die,-to curse his birth; Is this a mother's love?

A parent's heart may prove a snare; The child she loves so well,

Her hand may lead, with gentlest care, Down the smooth road to hell; Nourish its frame,-destroy its mind: Thus do the blind mislead the blind, Even with a mother's love.

Blest infant! whom his mother taught Early to seek the Lord,

And pour'd upon his dawning thought The day-spring of the word;

This was the lesson to her son

Time is Eternity begun :

Behold that mother's love!

Blest mother! who, in wisdom's path, By her own parent trod,

Thus taught her son to flee the wrath, And know the fear of God:

Ah youth like him enjoy your prime ; Begin eternity in time,

Taught by that mother's love.

50

THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT.

That mother's love! how sweet the name!
What was that mother's love?

The noblest, purest, tenderest flame
That kindles from above,
Within a heart of earthly mould,

As much of heaven as heart can hold,
Nor through eternity grow cold:

This was that mother's love.

MONTGOMERY.

THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT.

My baby! my poor little one; thou'st come a winter flower,—

A pale and tender blossom, in a cold, unkindly

hour;

Thou comest with the snow-drop-and, like that pretty thing,

The power that called my bud to life, will shield its blossoming.

The snow-drop hath no guardian leaves, to fold her safe and warm,

Yet well she bides the bitter blast, and weathers out the storm;

I shall not long enfold thee thus-not long, but well I know

The Everlasting Arms, my babe, will never let thee go!

The snow-drop-how it haunts me still!-hangs down her fair young head,

So thine may droop in days to come, when I have long been dead;

And yet the little snow-drop's safe! from her instruction seek,

For who would crush the motherless, the lowly, and the meek!

Yet motherless thou'lt not be long-not long in name, my life!

Thy father soon will bring him home, another,

fairer wife;

[sight; Be loving, dutiful, to her;-flnd favour in her But never, oh my child! forget thine own poor mother quite.

But who will speak to thee of her?-the gravestone at her head

Will only tell the name and age, and lineage of the dead!

But not a word of all the love-the mighty love for thee,

That crowded years into an hour of brief ma

ternity.