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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 his 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.

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?

Ten thousand voices answer, “No!”

Ye clasp your babes and kiss ;

Your bosoms yearn, your eyes o’erflow;

Yet, ah! remember this ;
The infant, rear'd 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 broad road to hell-
Nourish its frame, destroy its mind;
Thus do the blind mislead the blind,

E'en with a Mother's Love.

Bless'd infant! whom his mother taught

Early to seek the Lord,
And pour'd upon his dawning thought

The day-spring of the word;
This was her lesson to her son,
-Time is eternity begun:

Behold that Mother's Love.

Bless'd 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.

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 earth can hold,
Nor through eternity grows cold :

This was that Mother's Love.

HUMILITY.

“HUMILITY," said Lena, as she drew
A well-worn glove upon her sun-burnt hand,
“Is the best ornament a Christian knows.
I think not well of one whose ready speech
Can talk of self-abasement, and the need
She hourly feels of pardon from above,
Yet is array'd in all the pride of life,
Studies the body's ease, the graceful mien,
And all the luxuries of refining taste.
I judge our piety is better shown
By self-denying lowliness of mind;
By abstinence from all the joys of sense,
And disregard of what the world esteems.”
And while she spoke, the look of harsh reproof
Was follow'd by a self-complacent smile,
As her eye

the homely garb
And ill-adjusted ornaments she wore.
Serena, gifted with a milder mood,
Not prone to censure, diffident and meek,
In gentle accents urged the favorite theme.
“I envy not the beauty's flatter'd form,
And all the attractions of exterior grace,
If I must with them take the pride of heart,

fell upon

The vanity that follows where they are ;
For sure I am that lowliness of mind,
Self-disesteem, and meek humility,
Are ornaments more lovely far than they :
And while I feel these better gifts are mine,
I covet not what others prize so much."

And here Lucinda gently closed the book
That she had tried in vain to understand
And“Surely it is strange,” she said, “ that some,
Professing to renounce this passing world,
Should be at so much pains to store their mind
With varied knowledge and mere human lore.
The straight, still path that leads us to our God,
Is all a humble Christian needs to know;
And this, if I mistake not, best is learn'd,
And best pursued, by one who knows no more.
Not in the warmth of intellectual fire,
The elevation of the letter'd mind,
Or the gay flights of genius and of taste,
Should I expect that meek humility
Jesus, our lowly Master, bade us learn.
Humility may rather dwell with us,
Who, in a sphere of simple usefulness,
Can better serve and glorify our God,
Than they whom learning lifts so much above us."

There was a fourth.—I marvel what she thought,
For she said nothing-yet she felt, perhaps.
It may be she had loved the world too well,
Had too refined and delicate a taste;
And while she felt the grace of God within,
Had cause to mourn her yet unconquer'd pride.

Perhaps she loved too well the letter'd page,
The force of intellect, the mental fire;
Was fond to see the holy cause she loved
Adorned with all that learning can impart,
And thought too meanly of the homely garb
That simple poverty so often wears.
Or if of beauty she had something known,
She might remember when her folly prized
Above its worth the transitory good.
'T is certain, that the rising blush betray'd,
Her self-convicted bosom could not boast
The virtue each had challenged as her own.

I heard no more, nor know what passed within-
I may not judge whose heart was proudest there.
He to whose eyes all bosoms are unbarr'd
Might judge that she who blush'd that she was proud,
Was humbler yet than they who knew it not.
I cannot tell—but when they parted thence
To meet their God that night in secret prayer,
I think I know who breathed the deepest groan,
Who sunk the lowest at her Maker's feet,
And with most tears of bitter penitence
Besought an interest in her Savior's blood.

Humility ! the sweetest, loveliest flower
That bloom'd in Paradise, and the first that died,
Has rarely blossom'd since on mortal soil.
It is so frail, so delicate a thing,
'T is gone if it but look upon itself;
And she who ventures to esteem it hers,
Proves by that single thought she has it not.

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