Mother! dear mother! the feelings nurst
As I hung at thy bosom, clung round thee first.
’Twas the earliest link in love’s warm chain—
’Tis the only one that will long remain:
And as year by year, and day by day,
Some friend still trusted drops away,
Mother! dear mother! oh! dost thou see
How the shortened chain brings me nearer thee?
Bishop Mant thus describes the place where Mosses grow:—
On upland hill, in lowland vale,
And where the frigid vapours sail,
Mantling the Alpine mountain hoar,
On granite-rock, or boggy moor,
On peat-clad marsh, or sandy heath,
On hillock’s grassy slope; beneath
The hedge-road fence, and on the bank,
Fringed with the plumed osier dank,
Of streamlet, pool, or waterfall;
On wave-washed stone, on plastered wall;
On tree of forest, or of fruit,
The bark-clad trunk, the heaving root;
Or where the spring with oozing slime
Slides trickling down the rifted lime;
Or where the grav’ly pathway leads
Through shady woods, o’er plashy meads:—
Exulting in the wintry cold,
Their cups the mossy tribes unfold;
Fringed, and beneath a coping hid
Of filmy veil, and convex lid,
On many a thread-like stalk, bespread
With yellow, brown, or crimson red,
In contrast to the leaves of green,
A velvet carpet, where the queen
Of fairies might in triumph lie
And view the elvish revelry;
Soft as the cygnet’s downy plume,
Or produce of the silkworm’s loom,
Survey them by the unaided eye,
And, if the seeds within you lie
Of love for natural beauty true,
They’ll shoot enlivened at the view
Of hair or feather-mantled stem,
The waving stalk, the fringed gem,
Enveloping its chaliced fruit;
So fair, so perfect, so minute,
That bursting forth, the seeds may seem
A floating cloud of vapoury steam.
Or by the microscopic glass
Surveyed, you’ll see how far surpass
The works of nature, in design,
And texture delicately fine,
And perfectness of every part,
Each effort of mimetic art.
A mother’s love—how sweet the name!
What is a mother’s love?
—A noble, pure, and tender flame,
Enkindled from above,
To bless a heart of earthly mould;
The warmest love that can grow cold;
This is a mother’s love.
Montgomery.
Dear mother, of the thousand strings which waken
The sleeping harp within the human heart,
The longest kept in tune, though oft forsaken,
Is that in which the mother’s voice bears part;
Her still small voice bids e’en the careless ear
To turn with deep and pure delight to hear.
Dandelion.... The Rustic Oracle.
The Dandelion is the most common of flowers. It is found in the four quarters of the globe, near the pole as beneath the equator, on the margin of rivers and streams as well as on sterile rocks. It serves the shepherd instead of a clock, while its feathery tufts are his barometer, predicting calm or storm. The globes formed by the seeds of the Dandelion are used for other purposes. If you are separated from the object of your love, pluck one of those feathery spheres, charge each of the little feathers with a tender thought; turn toward the spot where the loved one dwells; blow, and the aërial travellers will faithfully convey your secret message to his or her feet. If you wish to know if that dear one is thinking of you, blow again; and if a single aigrette is left upon the stalk, it is a proof that you are not forgotten.