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.