Mother! dear mother! the feelings nurst As I hung at thy bosom, clung round thee first. ’Twas the earliest link in love’s warm chain-- ’Tis the only one that will long remain: And as year by year, and day by day, Some friend still trusted drops away, Mother! dear mother! oh! dost thou see How the shortened chain brings me nearer thee? _Willis._ * * * * * Bishop Mant thus describes the place where Mosses grow:-- On upland hill, in lowland vale, And where the frigid vapours sail, Mantling the Alpine mountain hoar, On granite-rock, or boggy moor, On peat-clad marsh, or sandy heath, On hillock’s grassy slope; beneath The hedge-road fence, and on the bank, Fringed with the plumed osier dank, Of streamlet, pool, or waterfall; On wave-washed stone, on plastered wall; On tree of forest, or of fruit, The bark-clad trunk, the heaving root; Or where the spring with oozing slime Slides trickling down the rifted lime; Or where the grav’ly pathway leads Through shady woods, o’er plashy meads:-- Exulting in the wintry cold, Their cups the mossy tribes unfold; Fringed, and beneath a coping hid Of filmy veil, and convex lid, On many a thread-like stalk, bespread With yellow, brown, or crimson red, In contrast to the leaves of green, A velvet carpet, where the queen Of fairies might in triumph lie And view the elvish revelry; Soft as the cygnet’s downy plume, Or produce of the silkworm’s loom, Survey them by the unaided eye, And, if the seeds within you lie Of love for natural beauty true, They’ll shoot enlivened at the view Of hair or feather-mantled stem, The waving stalk, the fringed gem, Enveloping its chaliced fruit; So fair, so perfect, so minute, That bursting forth, the seeds may seem A floating cloud of vapoury steam. Or by the microscopic glass Surveyed, you’ll see how far surpass The works of nature, in design, And texture delicately fine, And perfectness of every part, Each effort of mimetic art. A mother’s love--how sweet the name! What is a mother’s love? --A noble, pure, and tender flame, Enkindled from above, To bless a heart of earthly mould; The warmest love that can grow cold; This is a mother’s love. _Montgomery._ * * * * * Dear mother, of the thousand strings which waken The sleeping harp within the human heart, The longest kept in tune, though oft forsaken, Is that in which the mother’s voice bears part; Her still small voice bids e’en the careless ear To turn with deep and pure delight to hear. _Miss E. J. Eames._ DANDELION.... _The Rustic Oracle_.