And such should Woman ever prove-
The pole-star of domestic love,
To which the youthful circle tend,
As mother, guardian, teacher, friend.
There is an element of ill
Of power to soil, deface, and kill
The buds, the flowers, the fruits of life-
The careless mother, worthless wife.
O careless mother, why neglect
The early buds of vice to check
In your untutored boys and girls,
Ere cast on life-its sins and perils?
Your children's blood you would not shed;
Yet, cruel mother, on your head
The blood of souls uncared-for lies-
That blood to Heaven for ever cries.
Oh, woe for him who finds on earth
No spot so dreary as the hearth
Where sits the partner of his life,
A shrewish, wasteful, worthless wife!
O Woman, much to thee is given—
Thy mission comes direct from Heaven;
The priceless gems of human life—
A careful mother, virtuous wife.
ON THE DEATH OF HER TWO LITTLE BOYS (HER ALL).
OH! mother, bereaved! from thy desolate hearth
The treasures have vanish'd that bound thee to earth;
The green clinging tendrils, that wound round thy
heart,
Thou deem'd not so soon they should wither and part.
Thy golden-hair'd Willie, frank, fearless, and free,
With merry blue eyes, ever sparkling with glee;
Fair child of six summers, the fond father's joy-
The mother's first blessing, her beautiful boy;
At morn we beheld him bright, sportive, and gay,
With dear little Johnnie, his brother, at play-
At eve his white forehead was throbbing with pain
When laid on the bed he ne'er rose from again.
How deep was the scarlet that flush'd on his cheek; How wandering and wild the few words he could speak;
A ministering angel thou moved round his bed,
And closed his blue eyes when the spirit had fled.
And now, little Johnnie, sweet prattling child,
The last of thy treasures, the loving and mild!
Ere the first moon had waned, lay cold on his cot,
Like Rachel thou wept, for thy children were not.
Yet, weep not, sad mother! thy treasures were given By Him who resumed them, their Father in Heaven; To thee He had lent them, they still were His own; He call'd, and the doves to His bosom have flown.
The cot and the cradle are empty and still,
The redbreast is watching for crumbs on the sill;
Impatient he pecks at the dim frozen pane,
But Willie the crumbs will not scatter again.
Peace, peace to thee, mother! thou never shalt know
The heart-wringing anguish, the mourning and woe
Of mothers who weep, by the desolate hearth,
For perishing children, the outcasts of earth.
More deep than the wail o'er thy innocent dead,
More bitter the tears that for lost ones are shed,
For thine with the angels of light ever dwell.
"Tis well with thy children. With thee it is well.
ON THE DEATH OF HIS TWO AMIABLE AND ACCOMPLISHED DAUGHTERS, WHO DIED WITHIN A FEW MONTHS OF EACH OTHER.
FAIR garden of my life, my children's home,
With what full-hearted joy I used to come,
And there within the dear enclosure meet
My beauteous blossoms-there with fondness greet
My tender olive plants, when ranged around
The board, with love and peace and blessing crowned. fair blossoms of my life and love,
I deemed not the dark cloud, that lowered above
The garden of my life, would burst in storm
First on thy fair young head and graceful form,
My new-blown rose, just opening to the day,
While yet the dew on thy green branches lay,
Struck by the fever simoon's scorching breath-
Laid withered, prostrate, in the dust of death.
Yet I, while weeping o'er thy buried dust,
Have, in the faith of an immortal trust,
A hope to meet thee in that blissful home,
Where sorrow, death, and tears shall never come.
Alas! not long my vision of delight
Had vanished, when again the deadly blight
Fell on my garden. I had nourished there
A budding lily-fragrant, sweet, and fair-
Its snowy petals sparkling with the dew
Of life's young morn. Near to my heart it grew;
But ah! the cruel spoiler came and tore
From my fond heart, that bleeds for evermore,
My tender lily, drooping in the storm
That bowed to death her fair and fragile form.
I mourn my vanished flowers, my garden's pride. Pleasant in life, death did not long divide The sister blossoms, blighted in their bloom, Now in the dark recesses of the tomb
Laid side by side, in calm and dreamless sleep.
My God, thy will be done. Yet, while I weep,
I fain would wipe the tears that often flow
Down thy pale cheeks, dear partner of my woe—
The tender mother-she who reared with care
Her budding flow'rets into blossoms fair.
They faded on her bosom-passed the bourne
From whence to us they never will return;
But we to them in God's good time will come-
Where blossoms never die—"To Heaven our Home."
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