Words may be careless, and cruel and coarse— Be tauntingly hurled, or so bitterly spoken, Resistless as lightning’s destroying force, They scar with their scathing the heart they have broken. Words may have edge that is keener than steel— May pierce with their points like the swift-flying arrow; They hurt with these stings while the victim will feel, Then tear through the heart like a torturing harrow. Words may be venomed with malice and spite, May wither with scorn, with contempt and derision— Be dreaded like adders when coiling to bite Or hiss out their poison in whispered suspicion. Aye, words may be vile as a basilisk’s breath— A falsehood the germ—an ovum of evil, Impregnate with calumny’s virus innate, Then heated and hovered by envy and hate; Thus “brooded by serpents,” like the monster medieval, Come forth with his powers of blasting with death. But words that are warmed in the sunlight of love Will soothe with their feeling a brother’s affliction; ’Tis the Spirit from heaven that comes like a dove, So gently descending in sweet benediction. ’Tis blessed receiving what kindness imparts, How trifling so ever the token, Thrice blessed, the giving of solace to hearts That words of injustice have blighted and broken. There’s comfort and balm for life’s various smarts In words of true sympathy, tenderly spoken. Mother. Oh! mother, mine, mother, mine, come to me now, With a touch of thy hand sweep the care from my brow; Oh, come, on the wings of the silences come, Dear mother, my own, as you reigned in our home. Oh! mother, mine, mother, mine, come now at eve. I sit in the gloaming, in loneliness grieve; The world is so selfish, so cold and unkind, Sweet solace for pain in thy love I would find. Oh! mother, mine, mother, mine, hear me, I pray! In the silence of night, blot the sorrows of day; And point me away from the earth and its care. To the beautiful dwelling—that mansion so fair, Where mother, mine, mother mine, waiteth for me, With loved ones who’re watching my barque on life’s sea— Who’ll stretch out their welcoming hands from the shore, When I reach the glad haven, all buffetings o’er. Hands. There are hands we fondly cherish Not alone for form and grace, But the loving deeds that mold them, Place them next a sainted face. They can soothe as if with magic, When the fever-furies rage; Their caresses, unobstrusive, E’en a heartache can assuage. Hands can emphasize a welcome, Far beyond the gifts of speech, And their language, plain and truthful, Doubt did never yet impeach. Aye! there’s feeling warm and tender, Ever pulsing in the palm, In whose kindly, silent pressure Sorrow finds a healing balm.