wish that we should grow up to be useful, and embrace every opportunity for doing good. I need not tell you we are never so happy as when we are employed for the benefit of others. I saw the tears start to mamma's eyes as she read your remark on herself. It is her desire and earnest prayer that we may be permitted to live and "do greater things than these." I have just finished a little scrap on kindness to animals, and wonder if it would be worth your acceptance for the magazine.* I am, dear sir, respectfully yours, * We shall be glad to receive it. KATIE. POWER OF MATERNAL PIETY. BY MRS. SIGOURNEY. "When I was a little child," said a good old man, "my mother used to bid me kneel down beside her, and place her hand upon my head, while she prayed. Ere I was old enough to know her worth, she died, and I was left too much to my own guidance. Like others, I was inclined to evil passions, but often felt myself checked, and, as it were, drawn back by a soft hand upon my head. When a young man, I travelled in foreign lands, and was exposed to many temptations; but when I would have yielded, that same hand was upon my head, and I was saved. I seemed to feel its pressure as in the days of my happy infancy, and sometimes there came with it a voice in my heart, a voice that must be obeyed, 'O do not this wickedness, my son, nor sin against God."" WHY gaze ye on my hoary hairs, Ye children, young and gay? Your locks, beneath the weight of cares I had a mother once, like you, Who o'er my pillow hung, Kissed from my cheek the briny dew, She, when the nightly couch was spread, But, then, there came a fearful day; Till harsh hands tore me thence away, I plucked a fair white rose, and stole To lay it by her side, And thought strange sleep enchained her soul, For no fond voice replied. That eve, I knelt me down in woe, And said a lonely prayer; Yet still my temples seemed to glow Years fled, and left me childhood's joy, Fierce passions shook me like a reed; That soft hand made my bosom bleed, Youth came-the props of virtue reeled; A marble touch my brow congealed- In foreign lands I travelled wide, Yet still that hand, so soft and cold, As when, amid my curls of gold, With gentle touch it lay. And with it breathed a voice of care, "My son-my only son-beware! Nor sin against thy God." Think not, perchance, that age hath stole My kindly warmth away, And dimmed the tablet of the soul For many a long day; That hallowed touch was ne'er forgot!- And if I e're in heaven appear, A MOTHER TO HER WANDERING SON. "Oh, there is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to a son, that transcends all other affections of the heart! It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience; she will sur render every pleasure to his enjoyment; she will glory in his fame, and exult in his prosperity; and, if adversity overtake him, he will be the dearer to her by misfortune; and, if disgrace settle upon his name, she will still love and cherish him; and, if all the world beside cast him off, she will be all the world to him." Washington Irving. How sweet, my son, to view the rose, And, like a rose of beauty rare, Thou once didst cheer thy mother's heart; But now thy deeds deep grief impart. Why should'st thou, in life's opening morn, Or seek destruction's downward way? And let thy hardened heart relent, As when thy infant cheek I prest, The shameful scenes of sin and vice: And spend her age in grief and gloom? Ah! wilt thou mock when I complain? And bring me, sorrowing, to the tomb? It cannot be-it cannot be That thou wilt scorn thy mother's voice; Yet-yet I hope, my son, to see Walk in the ways of truth and peace. For wisdom is the strength of youth, The staff and crown of drooping age: Oh, then, let piety and truth Through all thy days thy heart engage! |