XIX.

The gifts a mother showers each day Upon her softly-clamorous brood: The gifts they value but for play,— The graver gifts of clothes and food,—

Whence come they but from him who sows With harder hand, and reaps, the soil; The merit of his labouring brows, The guerdon of his manly toil?

From Him the Grace: through her it stands Adjusted, meted, and applied; And ever, passing through her hands, Enriched it seems, and beautified.

Love's mirror doubles Love's caress: Love's echo to Love's voice is true:— Their Sire the children love not less Because they clasp a Mother too.