I cannot save thee from the griefs to which our flesh is heir, But I can arm thee with a spell, life's keenest ills to bear. I may not fortune's frowns avert, but I can with thee pray For wealth this world can never give nor ever take away. But wherefore doubt that He who makes the smallest bird his care, And tempers to the _new shorn lamb_ the blast it ill could bear, Will still his guiding arm extend, his glorious plan pursue, And if he gives thee ills to bear, will give thee courage too. Dear youngling of my little flock, the loveliest and the last, 'Tis sweet to dream what thou may'st be, when long, long years have past; To think when time hath blanched my hair, and others leave my side, Thou may'st be still my prop and stay, my blessing and my pride. And when this world has done its worst, when life's fevered fit is o'er, And the griefs that wring my weary heart can never touch it more, How sweet to think thou may'st be near to catch my latest sigh, To bend beside my dying bed and close my glazing eye. Oh! 'tis for offices like these the last sweet child is given; The mother's joy, the father's pride, the fairest boon of heaven: Their fireside plaything first, then of their failing strength the rock, The rainbow to their wavering years, the youngling of their flock. ALARIC A. WATTS. * * * * * Original. THE MOTHERS OF THE BIBLE. THE MOTHER OF SAMSON.