And when the world looks cold and surly on us,
Where can we go to meet a warmer eye
With such sure confidence as to a mother?”—Joanna Baillie.
“My child, my child, thou leavest me! I shall hear
The gentle voice no more that blest mine ear
With its first utterance: I shall miss the sound
Of thy light step amidst the flowers around,
And thy soft-breathing hymn at twilight’s close,
And thy ‘Good-night’ at parting for repose.
Under the vine-leaves I shall sit alone,