A MOTHER'S LOVE. To bring a helpless babe to light, In its existence lose her own, And live and breathe in it alone; This is 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, This is a mother's love. To mark its growth from day to day, Of intellectual fire : To smile, and listen while it talks, And can a mother's love grow cold? A mother may forget her child, -Is this a mother's love? 56 A MOTHER'S LOVE. Ten thousand voices answer "No!" The infant, reared alone for earth, May live, may die-to curse his birth ; A parent's heart may prove a snare ; Her hand may lead, with gentlest care, Blest infant! whom his mother taught And poured upon his dawning thought This was the lesson to her son, Behold that mother's love. Blest mother! who in Wisdom's path, Thus taught her son to flee the wrath, Ah! youth, like him enjoy your prime, Taught by that mother's love. TRUE LOVELINESS. That mother's love!--how sweet the name! Within a heart of earthly mould, As much of heaven as heart can hold, This was that mother's love. JAMES MONTGOMERY. True Loveliness. E that loves a rosy cheek, But a smooth and steadfast mind, CAREW. 57 H To the Moon. M ITH how sad steps, O moon, thou climb'st the skies, How silently, and with how wan a face! What! may it be, that e'en in That busy archer his sharp arrow tries? Is constant love deemed there but want of wit? SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. [SIR PHILIP SIDNEY, the best and bravest of the noble train who surrounded the throne of the "Virgin Queen," the Bayard of the Elizabethan era, who, dying in the field at Zutphen, put away the cup of water from his parched lips, that it might refresh the soldier "whose need was greater than his," was an ardent lover of poetry, and the earliest and kindest patron of the author of the "Faerie Queene." His poetical works are confined to a few sonnets and short poems, but some of these are marvellous for the force of their language and the purity of their tone.] H Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. [Of the poetry of PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY it is difficult to speak without a mournful feeling, that so much grandeur and beauty should be marred by the stain of infidelity, but too plainly visible in several of the writings of this gifted poet. Shelley |