Bright with more mother-love than tongue can say, Stern with the sense of foes in strong array,

Yet hopeful, with no hopefulness earth bringsI 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
face.

I see your

MY MOTHER'S BIBLE

BY GEORGE POPE MORRIS

This 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!

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!

THE DEAR OLD TOILING ONE
BY DAVID GRAY *

Oh, many a leaf will fall to-night
As she wanders through the wood!
And many an angry gust will break
The dreary solitude.

I wonder if she's past the bridge,
Where Luggie moans beneath,

While rain-drops clash in planted lines
On rivulet and heath.

Disease hath laid his palsied palm
Upon my aching brow;

The headlong blood of twenty-one
Is thin and sluggish now.

'Tis nearly ten! A fearful night,
Without a single star

To light the shadow on her soul
With sparkle from afar:

The moon is canopied with clouds,
And her burden it is sore;

What would poor Jackie do, if he
Should never see her more?

Aye, light the lamp, and hang it up
At the window fair and free;
"Twill be a beacon on the hill

To let your mother see.

And trim it well, my little Ann,

For the night is wet and cold,

And you know the weary, winding way

Across the miry wold.

All drench'd will be her simple gown,

And the wet will reach her skin:

I wish that I could wander down,

And the red quarry win,

To take the burden from her back,

And place it upon mine;

With words of cheerful condolence,

Not utter'd to repine.

You have a kindly mother, dears,

As ever bore a child,

And Heaven knows I love her well
In passion undefil'd.

Ah me! I never thought that she
Would brave a night like this,

While I sit weaving by the fire

A web of fantasies.

How the winds beat this home of ours

With arrow-falls of rain;

This lonely home upon the hill

They beat with might and main.

And 'mid the tempest one lone heart
Anticipates the glow,

Whence, all her weary journey done,
Shall happy welcome flow.

'Tis after ten! O, were she here,
Young man although I be,

I could fall down upon her neck,
And weep right gushingly!

I have not lov'd her half enough,
The dear old toiling one,

The silent watcher by my bed,

In shadow or in sun.

*From "The Victorian Anthology," published by Houghton Mifflin Company.

BOYHOOD

BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON

Ah, then how sweetly closed those crowded days! The minutes parting one by one, like rays

That fade upon a summer's eve.

But O, what charm or magic numbers
Can give me back the gentle slumbers

Those weary, happy days did leave?

When by my bed I saw my mother kneel,

And with her blessing took her nightly kiss; Whatever time destroys, he cannot this; E'en now that nameless kiss I feel.

SONGS FOR MY MOTHER *

BY ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH

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 would 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,—