The Rev. George Crabbe when describing the funeral of "The Mother," in his passing glance at the half-interested spectators, says:—
Curious and sad, upon the fresh-dug hill
The village lads stood, melancholy still.
and in his description of the return to the house:—
Arrived at home, how then they gazed around.
In every place where she no more was found;
The seat at table she was wont to fill;
The fireside chair, still set, but vacant still;
The garden walks, a labor all her own;
The latticed bower, with trailing shrubs o'ergrown:
The Sunday pew she filled with all her race—
Each place of hers, was now a sacred place,
That while it called up sorrows in the eyes,
Pierced the full heart, and forced them still to rise.
—From the Eclectic Magazine.
1403
A MOTHER'S LOVE.
Children, look in those eyes, listen to that dear voice, notice the feeling of even a single touch that is bestowed upon you by that gentle hand. Make much of it while yet you have that most precious of all good gifts, a loving mother. Read the unfathomable love of those eyes; the kind anxiety of that tone and look, however slight your pain.
In after-life you may have friends, fond, dear, kind friends; but never will you have again the inexpressible love and gentleness lavished upon you which none but a mother bestows. Often do I sigh in my struggles with hard, uncaring world, for the sweet, deep security I felt when, of an evening nestling in her bosom, I listened to some quiet tale, suitable to my age, read in her tender and untiring voice. Never can I forget her sweet glances cast upon me when I appeared asleep, never her kiss of peace at night. Years have passed away since we laid her beside my father in the old church yard; yet still her voice whispers from the grave, and her eye watches over me, as I visit spots long since hallowed to the memory of my mother.