A Cyclopædia of Sacred Poetical Quotations / Consisting of Choice Passages from the Sacred Poetry of All Ages and Countries, Classified and Arranged, for Facility of Reference, Under Subject Headings; Illustrated by Striking Passages from Scripture, and Forming Altogether a Complete Book of Devotional Poetry.

by Unknown

MOTHER.

He maketh the barren woman to keep house, and to be a joyful mother of children. Praise ye the Lord.—Psalm cxiii. 9.

Despise not thy mother when she is old.—Proverbs, xxiii. 22.

Now there stood by the cross of Jesus his mother, and his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Cleophas, and Mary Magdalene.

When Jesus therefore saw his mother, and the disciple standing by, whom he loved, he saith unto his mother, Woman, behold thy son!

Then saith he to the disciple, Behold thy mother! And from that hour that disciple took her into his own home.—John, xix. 25, 26, 27.

Her pious love excelled to all she bore;

New objects only multiplied it more;

And as the chosen found the pearly grain

As much as every vessel could contain:

As in the blissful vision, each shall share,

As much of glory as his soul can bear,

So did she love, and so dispense her care.

Dryden.

But when I go

To my lone bed, I find no mother there;

And weeping kneel, to say the prayer she taught;

Or when I read the Bible that she loved,

Or to her vacant seat at church draw near,

And think of her, a voice is in my heart,

Bidding me early seek my God, and love

My Blessed Saviour; and that voice is her’s,

I know it is, because these were the words

She used to speak so tenderly, with tears,

At the still twilight hour,—or when we walked

Forth in the Spring, among rejoicing birds,

Or peaceful talked beside the Winter hearth.

Mrs. Sigourney.

But if in yon immortal clime,

Where flows no parting tear,

That root of earthly love may grow,

Which struck so deeply here;

With what a tide of boundless bliss,

A thrill of rapture wild,

An angel mother in the skies,

Will greet her cherub child.

Mrs. Sigourney.

And say to mothers what a holy charge

Is theirs—with what a kingly power their love

Might rule the fountains of the new-born mind.

Warn them to wake at early dawn, and sow

Good seed before the world has sown its tares.

Mrs. Sigourney.

Hast thou sounded the depths of yonder sea,

And counted the sands that under it be?

Hast thou measured the height of heaven above?

Then may’st thou mete out a mother’s love.

Hast thou talked with the blessed of leading on

To the throne of God some wandering son?

Hast thou witnessed the angel’s bright employ?

Then may’st thou speak of a mother’s joy.

Evening and morn hast thou watched the bee

Go forth on her errands of industry.

The bee for himself hath gathered and toiled,

But the mother’s cares are all for her child.

Hast thou gone with the traveller Thought afar—

From pole to pole, and from star to star?

Thou hast—but on ocean, earth, and sea,

The heart of a mother has gone with thee.

There is not a grand, inspiring thought,

There is not a truth by wisdom taught,

There is not a feeling pure and high,

That may not be read in a mother’s eye.

And ever, since earth began, that look

Has been to the wise an open book,

To win them back from the lore they prize,

To the holier love that edifies.

There are teachings in earth, and sky, and air,

The heavens the glory of God declare;

But louder than voice, beneath, above,

He is heard to speak through a mother’s love.

Emily Taylor.

The mother’s love—there’s none so pure,

So constant, and so kind,

No human passion doth endure

Like this within the mind.

Mrs. Hale.

Lo! where yon cottage whitens through the green,

The loveliest feature of a matchless scene;

Beneath its shading elm, with pious fear,

An aged mother draws her children near;

While from the Holy Word, with earnest air,

She teaches them the privilege of prayer.

Look! How their infant eyes with rapture speak;

Mark the flushed lily on the dimpled cheek;

Their hearts are filled with gratitude and love,

Their hopes are centred in a world above,

Where, in a choir of angels, Faith portrays

The loved, departed, father of their days.

Rufus Dawes.

By thee, dear Mother, o’er whose darksome bed

Summer now pours his beams in vain—by thee

Gladly my infant love of flowers was fed;

By thee my steps through flow’ry tracts were led,

Where ne’er mine eye could aught but beauty see;

Throughout our borne exotics perfume shed,

In sooth, it was fair Flora’s treasury!

Thy love, and use of heaven’s blest means of grace,

Faith bids me trust, have placed thee with thy God,

Where flowers unfading deck the lovely place.

Oh, when I’ve closed my toilsome earthly race,

With thee may those bright scenes by me be trod,

With thee may I behold th’ eternal face.

William Pulling.

A mother’s love

Is an undying feeling. Earth may chill

And sever other sympathies, and prove

How weak all human bonds are; it may kill

Friendships, and crush hearts with them—but the thrill

Of the maternal breast must ever move

In blest communion with her child, and fill

Even Heaven itself with prayers and hymns of love.

S. D. Patterson.

I see my mother’s calm, sad face

Look through the mist of by-gone years;

And from yon high and holy place,

Her accents come unto mine ears,

To bid me hope amid my fears.

Egone.