#055. 131 
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. 
