As now it is, seems to her own fond heart, Immortal as the love that gave it being. Mother! MOTHER AND HOME BY JOHN JARVIS HOLDEN Home! - that blest refrain Sounds through every hastening year: All things go, but these remain. Held in memory's jeweled chain, Names most precious, names thrice dear: Mother! Home! - that blest refrain. How it sings away my pain! How it stills my waking fear! All things go, but these remain. Griefs may grow and sorrows wane, Mother! Home! - that blest refrain. Tenderness in every strain, Thoughts to worship and revere: All things go, but these remain. Every night you smile again, Every day you bring me cheer: Mother! Home! - that blest refrain: All things go, but these remain! THE SONS OF MARTHA BY RUDYARD KIPLING The Sons of Mary seldom bother, for they have inherited that good part, But the Sons of Martha favor their mother of the care ful soul and the troubled heart; And because she lost her temper once, and because she was rude to the Lord her Guest, Her Sons must wait upon Mary's Sons - world without end, reprieve or rest. It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock; It is their care that the gear engages; it is their care that the switches lock; It is their care that the wheels run truly; it is their care to embark and entrain, Tally, transport, and deliver duly the Sons of Mary by land and main. They say to the mountains, " Be ye removed!" They say to the lesser floods, "Run dry!" Under their rods are the rocks reproved - they are not afraid of that which is high. Then do the hilltops shake to the summit; then is the bed of the deep laid bare That the Sons of Mary may overcome it, pleasantly sleeping and unaware. They finger Death at their glove's end when they piece and repiece the living wires. He rears against the gates they tend; they feed him hungry behind their fires. Early at dawn, ere men see clear, they stumble into his terrible stall, And hale him forth like a haltered steer, and goad and turn him till evenfall. To these from birth is Belief forbidden; from these till death is relief afar, They are concerned with matters hidden, under the earth line their altars are. The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth, Yea, and to gather the floods in a cup, and pour them again at a city's drouth. They do not preach that their God will rouse them a little before the nuts work loose; They do not teach that His pity allows them to leave their work whenever they choose. As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand, Wary and watchful all their days, that their brethren's days may be long in the land. Lift ye the stone, or cleave the wood, to make a path more fair or flat, Lo! it is black already with blood some Sons of Martha spilled for that. Not as a ladder from Earth to Heaven, not as an altar to any creed, But simple service simply given to his own kind in their common need. And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessed - they know the angels are on their side. They know in them is the Grace confessed, and for them are the Mercies multiplied. They sit at the Feet and they hear The Word - they know how truly the Promise runs, They have cast their burden upon the Lord, and — the Lord He lays it on Martha's Sons. SEVEN TIMES FOUR. MATERNITY BY JEAN INGELOW From Songs of Seven Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups, Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall, When the wind wakes how they rock in the grasses, And dance with the cuckoo-buds, slender and small: Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses, Eager to gather them all. Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups, Mother shall thread them a daisy chain; Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow, That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain; Sing, "Heart thou art wide though the house be but Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups, Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow; A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, And haply one musing doth stand at her prow. O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little daughters, Maybe he thinks on you now! Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups, Fair yellow daffodils stately and tall; A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall, Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its A song of a boat: There was once a boat on a billow: Lightly she rocked to her port remote, And the foam was white in her wake like snow, |