THE MOTHER'S LOVE.

THERE is none,

In all this cold and hollow world, no fount
Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within
A mother's heart. It is but pride, wherewith
To his fair son the father's eye doth turn,
Watching his growth. Ay, on the boy he looks,
The bright glad creature springing in his path
But as the heir of his great name
-the young
And stately tree, whose rising strength ere long
Shall bear his trophies well. And this is love!
This is man's love! What marvel?

Your breast the pillow of his infancy,

- You ne'er made

While to the fulness of your hearts glad heavings
His fair cheek rose and fell; and his bright hair
Waved softly to your breath! You ne'er kept watch
Beside him till the last pale star had set,

And morn, all dazzling, as in triumph broke
On your dim weary eye: not yours the face
Which, early faded through fond care for him,
Hung o'er his sleep, and, duly as heaven's light,
Was there to greet his wakening. You ne'er smoothed
His couch, ne'er sung him to his rosy rest,

Caught his least whisper, when his voice from yours
Had learned soft utterance; pressed your lips to his
When fever parched it; hushed his wayward cries,
With patient, vigilant, never-wearied love!
No! these are Woman's tasks!— In these her youth,
And bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart,

Steal from her all unmark'd!

WOMAN AND FAME.

THOU hasta charmed cup, O Fame, -
A draught that mantles high,
And seems to lift this earthly frame
Above mortality.

Away! to me--a woman—bring

Sweet waters from affection's spring.

Thou hast green laurel-leaves that twine Into so proud a wreath

For that resplendent gift of thine,

Heroes have smiled in death.

Give me from some kind hand a flower,
The record of one happy hour.

Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone
Can bid each life-pulse beat,

As when a trumpet's note hath blown,
Calling the brave to meet.

But mine, let mine a woman's breast

By words of home-born love be bless'd.

A hollow sound is in thy song,
A mockery in thy eye,

To the sick heart that doth but long

For aid, for sympathy,

For kindly looks to cheer it on,

For tender accents that are gone.

-

Fame, Fame! thou canst not be the stay

Unto the drooping reed,

The cool fresh fountain in the day

Of the soul's feverish need:

Where must the lone one turn or flee?

Not unto thee, oh! not to thee!

THE THEMES OF SONG.

WHERE shall the minstrel find a theme? Where'er for freedom shed,

Brave blood hath dyed some ancient stream,
Amidst the mountains, red.

Where'er a rock, a fount, a grove,
Bears record to the faith

Of love, deep, holy, fervent love,
Victor of fear and death.

Where'er a spire points up to heaven,
Through storm and summer air,
Telling that all around have striven,
Man's heart, and hope, and prayer.

Where'er the chieftain's crested brow
In its pride hath been struck down,
Or a bright hair'd virgin head laid low,
Wearing its youth's first crown.

Where'er a home and hearth have been,
That now are man's no more;
A place of ivy, freshly green,
Where laughter's light is o'er.

Where'er by some forsaken grave,
Some nameless greensward heap,
A bird may sing, a violet wave,
A star its vigil keep.

Or where a yearning heart of old,
Or a dream of shepherd men,

With forms of more than earthly mould,
Hath peopled grot or glen.

There may the bard's high themes be found –

We die, we pass away;

But faith, love, pity — these are bound

To earth without decay.

The heart that burns, the cheek that glows,

The tear from hidden springs,

The thorn, and glory of the rose

These are undying things.

Wave after wave, of mighty stream,

To the deep sea hath gone ;

Yet not the less, like youth's bright dream,
The exhaustless flood rolls on.

THE RETURN.

"ART thou come with the heart of thy childhood back, The free, the pure, the kind?”

– So murmur'd the trees in my homeward track,

As they play'd to the mountain wind.

"Hast thou been true to thy early love?"

Whisper'd my native streams;

"Doth the spirit rear'd amidst hill and grove, Still revere its first high dreams?"

"Hast thou borne in thy bosom the holy prayer
Of the child in his parent-halls?"

Thus breathed a voice on the thrilling air,
From the old ancestral walls.

"Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithful dead,

Whose place of rest is nigh?

With the father's blessing o'er thee shed

With the mother's trusting eye? "

Then my tears gushed forth in sudden rain,
As I answer'd — “O ye shades!

I bring not my childhood's heart again
To the freedom of your glades!

"I have turn'd from my first pure love aside, O bright rejoicing streams!

Light after light in my soul have died,

The early glorious dreams!

"And the holy prayer from my thoughts hath pass'd,

The prayer at my mother's knee

Darkened and troubled I come at last,

Thou home of my boyish glee!

"But I bear from my childhood a gift of tears,

To soften and atone;

And O ye scenes of those blessed years!

They shall make me again your own.”