Earth saddens, never shall remove, And e'en that mortal grief shall prove And heighten it with Heaven. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. OUT OF NORFOLK, THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM. THAT those lips had language! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine, - thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears away!" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes O welcome guest, though unexpected here! - My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh, that maternal smile! it answers- Yes. I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day; I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away; And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown; May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more. Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return ; What ardently I wished I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived, By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, I learned at last submission to my lot; But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bawble coach, and wrapped In scarlet mantle warm and velvet cap, 'Tis now become a history little known That once we called the pastoral house our own Short-lived possession! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm that has effaced A thousand other themes, less deeply traced: Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou might st know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionery plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed All this, and, more endearing still than all, Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. Could time, his flight reversed, restore the hours When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flow ers, The violet, the pink, the jessamine, — I pricked them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while. Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile,) Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart, - the dear delight Thou- as a gallant bark, from Albion's coast, "Where tempests never beat nor billows roar And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide And day by day some current's thwarting force And, while the wings of fancy still are free, WILLIAM COWPER. THE MITHERLESS BAIRN. [An Inverary correspondent writes: "Thom gave me the following narrative as to the origin of The Mitherless Bairn'; I quote his own words. 'When I was livin' in Aberdeen, I was limping roun' the house to my garret, when I heard the greetin' o' a wean. A lassie was thumpin' a bairn, when out cam a big dame, bellowin' "Ye hussie, will ye lick a mitherless bairn!" I hobled up the stair and wrote the sang afore sleepin'.'"] WHEN a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'? "T is the puir doited loonie, the mitherless bairn! The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed; Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head; His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn, An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn. Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there, O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair; But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern, That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn! Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly rocked bed Now rests in the mools where her mammie is laid; |