A The Mother. SOFTENING thought of other years, When Life was all too bright for tears- A memory of affections fled- Of voices heard no more!- Oh, Mother!-in that early word Yet never, till the hour we roam, A watchful mother's breast! The thousand prayers at midnight pour'd Beside our couch of woes; The wasting weariness endured To soften our repose! Whilst never murmur mark'd thy tongue- How, Mother, is thy heart so strong What filial fondness e'er repaid, Regrets that rarely last!- Thy lifeless bosom o'er, We muse upon thy kindness shownAnd wish we'd loved thee more! 'Tis only when thy lips are cold, We mourn with late regret, 'Mid myriad memories of old, The days forever set! And not an act-nor look-nor thoughtAgainst thy meek control, But with a sad remembrance fraught Wakes anguish in the soul ! On every land- in every clime- From which her strength she draws, Then oh! may Nations guard that name With filial power and pride! -Charles Swain. W WHEN we are sick, where can we turn for succor, When we are wretched, where can we complain? And when the world looks cold and surly on us, Where can we go to meet a warmer eye With such sure confidence as to a mother? -Joanna Baillie Our Mother. UR mother's lost her youthfulness, And wrinkles take the place of smiles- We gaze at her in sorrow now, For though we've ne'er been told, Our mother's lost her youthfulness, Yet still within her heart there shines For oft she'll speak in merry tones, Our mother's lost her youthfulness, The light step has grown slow, The graceful form has learned to stoop, The bright cheek lost its glow, Her weary hands have grown so thin, Her dear hand trembles now; 'Passing away" in sad, deep lines, Is traced upon her brow. Our mother's lost her youthfulness, A sad voice whispers to our hearts,- Our mother's lost her youthfulness, And feel more drearily the truth, She soon must pass away. Ah! even now the "boatman pale" But gently bear the wearied form She will not fear-CHRIST went before, And safe beyond the troubled stream, -Rural New Yorker. But it is blessedness! A year ago I did not see it as I do to-day- The little child that brought me only good. And if some night when you sit down to rest, I wonder so that mothers ever fret At little children clinging to their gown; Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber floor, If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot, And hear it patter in my house once more,- Is never rumpled by a shining head; PAREN Courtesies to Parents. ARENTS lean upon their children, and especially their sons, much earlier than either of them imagine. Their love is a constant inspiration, a perennial fountain of delight, from which other lips may quaff, and be comforted thereby. It may be that the mother has been left a widow, depending on her only son for support. He gives her a comfortable home, sees that she is well clad, and allows no debts to accumulate, and that is all. It is considerable, more even than some sons do, but there is a lack. He seldom thinks it worth while to give her a caress; he has forgotten all those affectionate ways that kept the wrinkles from her face, and made her look so much younger, than her years; he is ready to put his hand in his pocket and gratify her slightest request, but to give of the abundance of his heart is another thing entirely. He loves his mother? Of course he does! Are there not proofs enough of his filial regard? Is he not continually making sacrifices for her benefit? What more can any reasonable woman ask? Ah, but it is the mother heart that craves an occasional kiss, the support of your youthful arm, the little attentions and kindly courtesies of life, that smooth down so many of its asperities, and make the journey less wearisome. Material aid is good so far as it goes, but it has not the sustaining power which the loving, sympathetic heart bestows upon its object. You think she has outgrown these weaknesses and follies, and is content with the crust that is left; but you are mistaken. Every little offer of attention,-your escort to church or concert, or for a quiet walk, brings back the youth of her heart; her cheeks glow and her eyes sparkle with pleasure, and oh! how proud she is of her son! Even the father, occupied and absorbed as he may be, is not wholly indifferent to these filial expressions of devoted love. He may pretend to care very little for them, but having faith in their sincerity, it would give him serious pain were they entirely withheld. Fathers need their sons quite as much as the sons need the fathers, but in how many deplorable instances, do they fail to find in them a staff for their declining years! My son, are you a sweetener of life? You may disappoint the ambition of your parents; may be unable to distinguish yourself as they fondly hoped; may find your intellectual strength inadequate to your own desires, but let none of these things move you from a determination to be a son of whose moral character they need never be ashamed. Begin early to cultivate a habit of thoughtfulness and cousideration of others, especially for those whom you are commanded to honor. Can you begrudge a few extra steps, for the mother who never stopped to number those you demanded during your helpless infancy? Have you the heart to slight her requests, or treat her remarks with indifference, when you cannot begin to measure the patient devotion with which she bore with your peculiarities? Anticipate her wants, invite her confidence, be prompt to offer assistance, express your affection as heartily as you did when a child, that the mother may never grieve in secret for the son she has lost. -S. S. Times. A Winter's Evening Hymn to My Fire. THOU of home the guardian Lar, And when our earth hath wandered far Our brave old poets: at thy touch how stirs By the fast throbbing hammers of the poet's thought! The aspirations unattained, The rhythms so rathe and delicate, They bent and strained And broke, beneath the somber weight As who would say, "'Tis those, I ween, While the gay snowstorm, held aloof, By him with fire, by her with dreams, A sweetly unobtrusive third: For thou hast magic beyond wine, The unspoken thought thou canst divine; In Arctic outskirts of the brain. That close against rude day's offences, And open its shy midnight rose. Sun of all inmost confidence! To thy rays doth the heart unclose Its formal calyx of pretenses, --James Russell Lowell. WH By the Fireside. HAT is it fades and flickers in the fire, As if in the red embers some desire, Some word prophetic burned, defying death? Lords of the forest, stalwart oak and pine, Lie down for us in flames of martyrdom: A human household warmth, their death-fires shine; Bringing the mountain winds that in their boughs And breath of violets sweet about their roots; green What clear Septembers fade out in a spark! What rare Octobers drop with every coal! Within these costly ashes, dumb and dark, Are hid spring's budding hope, and summer's soul. Pictures far lovelier smolder in the fire, Visions of friends who walked among these trees, Whose presence, like the free air, could inspire A winged life and boundless sympathies. Eyes with a glow like that in the brown beech, When sunset through its autumn beauty shines; Or the blue gentian's look of silent speech, From the familiar glens, the haunted hills- Do you forget us-under Eden trees, Or in full sunshine on the hills of GodWho miss you from the shadow and the breeze, And tints and perfumes of the woodland sod? Dear for your sake the fireside where we sit Watching these sad, bright pictures come and go; That waning years are with your memory lit, Is the one lonely comfort that we know. Is it all memory? Lo, these forest boughs Burst on the hearth into fresh leaf and bloom; Waft a vague, far-off sweetness through the house, And give close walls the hillside's breathing-room. A second life, more spiritual than the first, They find a life won only out of death. O sainted souls, within you still is nursed For us a flame not fed by mortal breath! Unseen, ye bring to us, who love and wait, Wafts from the heavenly hills, immortal air; No flood can quench your heart's warmth or abate; Ye are our gladness, here and everywhere. -Lucy Larcom. The Fireside. IF F solid happiness we prize, The world has nothing to bestow; Our portion is not large indeed; |