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A MOTHER'S LOVE.

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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.

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.

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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?

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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,

E'en with a mother's love.

Blest infant! whom his mother taught

Early to seek the Lord,
And poured 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.

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TRUE LOVELINESS.

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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 grows cold ;
This was that mother's love.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

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To the Moon

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

heav'nly place
9 That busy archer his sharp arrow tries ?
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes

Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case ;

I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. Then, even of fellowship, O moon, tell me,

Is constant love deemed there but want of wit ?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?

Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn, whom that love doth possess ?
Do they call virtue there—ungratefulness?

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

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[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 carliest 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.]

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TAIL to thee, blithe spirit !

Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven, or near it,

Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

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[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

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