When sleep forsook my open eye,
Who was it sang sweet lullaby,
And rocked me that I should not cry?
My Mother.

Who sat and watched my infant head,
When sleeping on my cradle bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed?

My Mother.

When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye,
And wept for fear that I should die?

My Mother.

Who dressed my doll in clothes so gay,
And taught me pretty how to play,
And minded all I had to say?

My Mother.

Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the place to make it well?

My Mother.

Who taught my infant lips to pray,
And love God's holy book and day,
And walk in wisdom's pleasant way?

My Mother.

And can I ever cease to be,
Affectionate and kind to thee,
Who was so very kind to me?

My Mother.

Ah! no, the thought I cannot bear,
And if God please my life to spare,
I hope I shall reward thy care,

My Mother.

When thou art feeble, old, and gray,
My healthy arms shall be thy stay,
And I will soothe thy pains away,

My Mother.

And when I see thee hang thy head, 'Twill be my turn to watch thy bed, And tears of sweet affection shed,

My Mother.

For God, who lives above the skies,

Would look with vengeance in his eyes,
If I should ever dare despise

HALF-WAKING

BY WILLIAM ALLINGHAM *

I thought it was the little bed

I slept in long ago;

My Mother.

A straight white curtain at the head,
And two smooth knobs below.

I thought I saw the nursery fire,
And in a chair well-known
My mother sat, and did not tire
With reading all alone.

If I should make the slightest sound
To show that I'm awake,

She'd rise, and lap the blankets round,
My pillow softly shake;

Kiss me and turn my face to see
The shadows on the wall,

And then sing "Rousseau's Dream

to me

Till fast asleep I fall.

But this is not my little bed;

That time is far away:

With strangers now I live instead,

From dreary day to day.

* From "The Victorian Anthology," published by Houghton Mifflin Company.

TO A CHILD EMBRACING HIS MOTHER

BY THOMAS HOOD

Love thy mother, little one!

Kiss and clasp her neck again

Hereafter she may have a son

Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain.
Love thy mother, little one!

Gaze upon her living eyes,

And mirror back her love for thee,-
Hereafter thou mayst shudder sighs

To meet them when they cannot see.
Gaze upon her living eyes!

Press her lips the while they glow

With love that they have often told,-
Hereafter thou mayst press in woe,

And kiss them till thine own are cold.
Press her lips the while they glow!

Oh, revere her raven hair!

Although it be not silver-gray-
Too early Death, led on by Care,

May snatch save one dear lock away.
Oh, revere her raven hair!

Pray for her at eve and morn,

That Heaven may long the stroke defer;For thou mayst live the hour forlorn

When thou wilt ask to die with her.

Pray for her at eve and morn!

TO MY MOTHER

BY ROBERT HAVEN SCHAUFFLER

I see your face as on that calmer day
When from my infant eyes it passed away
Beyond these petty cares and questionings
Beyond this sphere of sordid human things-
The trampled field of time's capricious play.

Bright with more mother-love than tongue can say, Stern with the sense of foes in strong array,

Yet hopeful, with no hopefulness earth brings — I see your face.

O gracious guarder from the primrose way,
O loving guide when wayward feet would stray,
O inspiration sweet when the heart sings,
O patient ministrant to sufferings,
Down the long road, madonna mia, may
I see your face.

MY MOTHER'S BIBLE

BY GEORGE POPE MORRIS

This book is all that's left me now,—
Tears will unbidden start,-
With faltering lip and throbbing brow
I press it to my heart.

For many generations past

Here is our family tree;

My mother's hands this Bible clasped,

She, dying, gave it me.

Ah! well do I remember those

Whose names these records bear;
Who round the hearthstone used to close,
After the evening prayer,

And speak of what these pages said

In tones my heart would thrill!