My son! my son! I cannot speak the rest-- Ye who have sons can only know my fondness! Ye who have lost them, or who fear to lose, Can only know my pangs! none else can guess them; A mother's sorrows cannot be conceived But by a mother! 1414 Pomponius Atticus, who pronounced a funeral oration on the death of his mother, protested that though he had resided with her sixty-seven years, he was never once reconciled to her; "because," said he, "there never happened the least discord between us, and consequently there was no need of reconciliation." 1415 THE MOTHER'S HOPE. Is there, when the winds are singing In the happy summer time-- When the raptured air is ringing With earth's music heavenward springing, Forest chirp and village chime-- Is there, of the sounds that float Unsighingly, a single note Half so sweet, and clear, and wild, As the laughter of a child? --_Laman Blanchard._ 1416 _A True Estimate of a Mother._--To a child, there is no velvet so soft as a mother's lap, no rose so lovely as her smile, no path so flowery as that imprinted with her footsteps. 1417 TURF FROM MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. The following simple, beautiful lines contain an unadorned statement of a fact in the experience of a friend, who is fond of wandering in the Scotch highland glens: As I came wandering down Glen Spean, Where the braes are green and grassy, With my light step I overtook A weary-footed lassie. She had one bundle on her back, Another in her hand, And she walked as one who was full loath To travel from the land. Quoth I, "my bonnie lass!"--for she Had hair of flowing gold, And dark brown eyes, and dainty limbs, Right pleasant to behold-- "My bonnie lass, what aileth thee, On this bright summer day, To travel sad and shoeless thus Upon the stony way? "I'm fresh and strong, and stoutly shod, And thou art burdened so; March lightly now and let me bear The bundles as we go." "No, no!" she said, "that canna be, What's mine is mine to bear, Of good or ill, as God may will, I take my portioned share." "But you have two and I have none; One burden give to me; I'll take _that_ bundle from thy back That heavier seems to be." "No, no!" she said; "_this_, if you will, _That_ holds--no hand but mine May bear its weight from dear Glen Spean 'Cross the Atlantic brine!" "Well, well! but tell me what may be Within that precious load Which thou dost bear with such fine care Along the dusty road? "Is it some present rare From friend in parting hour; Perhaps, as prudent maidens wont, Thou tak'st with thee thy dower?"