New England Religious Herald

THE MOTHER'S FAITH.

BY ELIZUR WRIGHT

Cried a pale one. Give me joy,

I have borne a cherub boy.

Borne a boy! The world is full.

Crammed its game of push and pull;

You have given that cherub life

For a gauntlet race of strife.

If his heart be large and tender,

Sadly will his means be slender ;

Everlasting duns will push him,

Poverty will cramp and crush him.

If his heart be small and stony,

It will canker with his money;

Rust will gnaw it through and through,

Care will vex it black and blue;

And the wretch, Oh hapless mother,

In his wealth will starve and smother?

Cried the mother. God is living,

Blest the boon is of his giving;

I will trust to him the boy,

Living shall be full of joy.

Truth and justice—self-denial—

Shall prepare him for the trial

Into which he must be hurled,

Of a scuffling brutal world.

Watch will I his opening soul,

Kindling with the living coal—

Love to God and love to man—

Working out his Maker's plan.

Who shall say this boy of mine

Shall not as an angel shine,

Winning to the Heavenly state

Hearts now filled with strife and hate;

Calling down that better day,

When the good shall bear the sway,

And the brutal slink away?

Ceased she and her deep blue eye

Flashed the glories of the sky.

From her faith not to be driven,

With a love to angels given,

Kissed she then the gift of Heaven.